


Of Ghosts, Beasts, and Shadows

by Krisander



Series: Alternative Alternia [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, Prequel, a spin-off of Alternative Alternia, lots of OC trolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1792963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krisander/pseuds/Krisander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale in which a young psychic indigoblood meets his fated moirail, delving into his relationship with two dead trolls, the woes of his birthsign,  and how the palest quadrant is not always the easiest. Includes many scenes of violence, mentions of non-consensual sexual encounters, religious blasphamy, blatant hemocaste desecration, even more blatant hemodiscrimination, the deaths of many trolls and drones (as well as maiming or injury), the deaths of many fine beasts and lusii, and an inordinate amount of swearing. May not be appropriate for grubs and young trolls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Olly

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spin-off of Alternative Alternia that follows the adventures of Olly and Syl before they met the rest of the cast. It covers some backstory that has been hinted at or mentioned, as well as a ton of things that have not. It also prominently features Aradia and Tavros, along with perhaps some other familiar faces.

This is your first real job and you are so very scared. Okay, so technically you've had lots of jobs before. As an indigoblood you were lucky enough to get hatched out with a little of that ridiculous strength, which made you desirable for jobs that required someone who was both small and strong. You have beaten up highwaymen, repaired broken hives, and taken (or calmed) down feral lusii. Nothing big like this though.  
  
You stare up at the menacing castle in front of you and shrug off your feelings of inadequacy. It's not like your target's blood was any higher than your own. Lucky bastard just happened to have an ancestor around to set him up in life. You, on the other hand, wore your symbol like a leper's brand. It marked you as an outcast, a bad luck charm, a _Doombringer_. Your ancestor had had the gall to meet you once. After he spotted your symbol, you distinctly remember how the sympathy on his face stuck in your craw. If he really had not wanted you to hatch out, maybe he should have thought about it harder before he pailed some random asshole to make the slurry from which you sprang.  
  
To be fair, although he had no treasures or titles to give you, he gave you something even better. Knowledge is the best weapon, after all, and thanks to him you had plenty of it. You know how to traverse the deserts without leaving a trace. You know where all the watering holes are and which ones are safe to drink from. You know how to spot when someone is lying through their teeth and when to let it slide because they are even more afraid of you than you are of them. Even better, you know how to fight with your body and with your axes and with your most powerful weapon of all- your _emotions_.  
  
Thinking of which, you had some business to attend to on that front. The big panther beside you is getting antsy from all of your worrying. You take a deep breath and calm yourself, focusing on the job at hand. You have some highblood pedophile to wipe off the face of the planet, along with anyone else in his hive. The beaten and battered kid that had come to you had escaped with his life, but others had not been as lucky. You had left him with your lusus (neglectful bastard that he is) and refused to take his coin. A few coppers was practically taking the job for free anyway. Besides, you see this more as a practice run than a job. You have always wondered how many adults you could take out on your own.  
  
Might as well find out tonight.  
  
The first troll you run into is a lowblood servant. You almost would consider letting him go if you had not heard first-hand that there were no such thing as innocent bystanders in this hive. The panther rips out his throat before he can even scream. You take another breath to take the edge off the rage. You have to keep your head. Going too far will likely end up with you getting your throat ripped out as well. Your axes gleam in the torch light as you stalk farther into the building.  
  
The two guards spot you a moment too late to do anything about it. You disembowel one with your left ax and then bring around your right to slice through his neck as he screams. The other is dispatched by the panther in a mess of olive blood. You sense the presence of the lusus before you see him. It is a great big slitherbeast, all full of venom and even more poisonous words. You smile grimly and bring him with you.  
  
In the next room, they are ready for you. They had heard the screams of the guards. It still is not enough to save them. You charge into the knot of adults as if you are as big and powerful as your lusus, and they scatter as if they believe this white lie. You descend into the cold methodical frame of mind you reserve for such brawls, keeping your feet and your blades moving until there is nothing left standing to attack. The snake devours one of the bodies as you tie a strip of fabric around a minor wound on your arm. The panther licks some blood off your sleeve and you can sense the anger of this place slowly building. There are more friends here to be made.  
  
You sidetrack to the other rooms on the lower floor before you return to the stairs. Four more dead trolls and two more lusii join you. At this point, you are surprised the hive is even still standing in the face of your cold fury. You ascend the stairs with your entourage of living weapons. You are fire. You are death. You are a Doombringer. You are the calm eye in the center of the hurricane of claws and fangs.  
  
The lowblood lusus dies on the second floor, bleeding out her bronze color from the volley of arrows she just took. You feel her pain and it pushes on you. For a moment, you are frightened as she is. Then it only serves to strengthen your rage. The snake is slower after he has eaten, but he still manages to take out two more guards. You've lost track of the number of trolls that have fallen to your blades, as well as the number of wounds you have received. In your haze of bloodlust and battleblindness, you do not realize you have already reached the highest floor.  
  
What you see is startling enough to give your pause.  
  
Another kid has the highblood lord kneeling in front of her, a small dagger pressed to his throat. She looks you over in a way that you entirely do not like, but you still hesitate. She does not look to be a member of the hive and she cannot be much older than you are. You wipe the blood dripping down your nose with your sleeve and she grimaces.  
  
"Look," she says, "I don't know who you are, and I much don't care. However, this guy here is my mark, and I cannot allow you to kill him. I have a reputation to uphold. Plus, I get paid half up-front."  
  
"Grrrou," you say. You pause, clear your throat, and try again. "You. Get outta our way. I have business with this bastard."  
  
You see her eyes skitter over the panther pacing behind you and the large snake lusus jamming himself through the doorway, "You're some kind of psychic? That is entirely unfair, considering your blood color."  
  
"Move, or die," you state. "I'm in no mood for games, bitch."  
  
"If you intend to kill him, might I suggest a compromise?" she offers. "I am being paid to kill him anyway, so why don't you simply go back home and tend to your wounds?"  
  
"Kill? Of course I'm gonna kill him," you snarl. "But only _after_ I've made him suffer every agonizing second he has left."  
  
"Whoa," her eyebrows shoot up. "That is quite...personal. Look, I've got a job to do and-"  
  
"Give me the pedophile," your snarl turns low, into a predatory growl. "Hand him over and you can leave with all your organs on the inside of your body."  
  
Her face goes ashen gray. The knuckles around the dagger hilt are almost as white as the snake beside you. The highblood adult looks highly annoyed, but the trickle of indigo from his throat keeps him in place. She swallows hard, "Pedophile?"  
  
"I got a job, too," you can feel the pressure building. "I gotta pupa not even up to my shoulder sittin in my hive right now all beat up and messed up and scared shitless. And he was one a the lucky ones. Hand him over." You vision is starting to tunnel, leaving only this worthless scum's frightened expression.  
  
"As long as you make sure he suffers," she finally agrees as she steps away. Everything goes black.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
She's digging around in his chest cavity with her dagger, and you sit on the floor in the corner and watch her. The panther has long since left, and the two lusii are sleeping peacefully beside you, satiated by their corpse-filled bellies. You wish you could keep them, but lusii are not like your everyday friends. They have to rest up so they can go get new pupas to raise from the caverns. You have to settle for keeping your menagerie of beasts filled with your friends more suited for the desert climate.  
  
"There we are," she pulls out his heart. "Do you have any idea how much hearts are worth on the market these days? Especially those from highbloods! I suppose I will give it to you, though, since I have to take his head."  
  
You blink and rouse yourself enough to clamber upwards into a standing position, "What for?"  
  
"To give to that pupa, of course," responds the stranger. "Tell him to eat it and he will grow strong." She tosses it towards you and you catch it on reflex. You seriously are impressed. You've never seen a kid your age do such things with so much confidence. This is obviously an old game to her.  
  
"Who _are_ you?" you wonder aloud.  
  
"No one of consequence," she shrugs as she bags the head.  
  
"I _must_ know..." you trail off.  
  
"Get used to disappointment," she smirks, then she is out the door to the balcony. You follow just in time to see her leap over the railing onto the back of a waiting owl lusus. It wings away, leaving you feeling slightly bereft as it disappears into the early morning sky. That was probably the longest you have ever spent in any troll's company, excluding your ancestor.  
  
"'Kay," you say to the empty sky.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
You toss the kid the little cloth parcel, "It's done."  
  
He stares at you as if he was looking at the Sufferer himself, "You...you killed him?" His eyes sweep over you, pausing on your various wounds (as well as the splotches of blood that are obviously not your own).  
  
"I killed _all_ of them," you clarify before collapsing down into your chair. Your lusus comes over and snuffles you for a moment before grunting and trotting off to go find the medical supplies. If only he had opposable thumbs. Bandiging some of these wounds was going to be a bitch.  
  
"You know... I can't really pay you for that much," the kid fidgets. "Deeter said you cost a silver per head. I don't have that kind of-"  
  
"Shut up," you cut him off, not entirely unkindly. "Did I ask for any coin, kid? I don't think so. You're, what, three? Three and a half?"  
  
"Four," he mumbles.  
  
"Sure, yeah," you start to zone out. "I can believe that. Anyway, you're smaller than I am. Consider it done and sealed. Per bones or whatever they call it. For free."  
  
"Really?" he looks at you sideways, as if certain that this is some sort of trick.  
  
"Really really," you grin and his eyes quickly find somewhere else to look. "I'm not in it for the money, Darmon. Don't care bout money. What good does piles of gold do a Doombringer like me? Wouldn't have no place to spend it."  
  
"Then why?" asks the kid. "Why would you do it?"  
  
"Cause someone once told me I had a job to do," you stare at the ceiling as you muse aloud. "That I had to look out for those who are smaller and weaker than I am. I don't like her much, but she's gotta point. If I don't look out for you guys, who will? Gog? The Outer Gods? The Sufferer? 'Stars are beautiful, but they may not take part in anything, they must just look on forever.' They cannot or will not act. So I will."  
  
He digests this for a moment before turning to you solemnly, "You're shithive maggots."  
  
Your grin widens, "Course I am! I'm Sun-born! Now eat that bastard's fuckin heart so you grow big and strong."  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
The next time that you see her, it is at the market. You do not mean to stare, but you had almost quite forgotten her face. Those long tresses and the horns that frame it, though, are entirely familiar. You wonder for a moment if she would recognize you. It is not as if many trolls give you much more than a passing glance. If they do, it is to do a warding symbol against bad luck and then check to make sure their purse strings are not cut, before forgetting you entirely. You wear your sign on your chest for all to see, a silent dare to the world to 'have at thee.' Dia has told you no fewer than a dozen times to be more inconspicuous about it, but you honestly like the shock and awe factor it has on others.  
  
The badass stranger disappears into the crowd without so much as glancing your way, so you carry on as you were before. Although not technically a job, you are here for a very explicit purpose. There is sadness here. An overwhelming melancholy that you could feel even on the outskirts of town where you had your last job. You had decided yesternight that you could not leave until you discovered what is causing this horrible disturbance.  
  
By the time you find the pens, you are distraught. You feel trapped and afraid and you miss the wide open plains you have never been to. The cattle mournfully call to you, asking for help. One by one, their baleful gazes turn towards you, pleading. You shudder. There is no way you can ignore such a request, even if your lusus was something other than a hoofbeast himself. It takes about half a minute to find the gate unguarded and demolish it. For one beautiful moment, all of the beasts stand perfectly still as if in shock.  
  
Then their exuberance uplifts you. Their sudden joy strikes you hard and fast, and you reach out to one of the bigger ones and swing onto his back as if he were Oxdad. They start to stream out of the broken gate and their excitement builds. You whoop for joy as they begin to pick up speed. Trolls dodge out of the way as your herd rushes down the streets. They know the way to freedom is forward. As you reach the edge of town, some drones stand in the road to block your way.  
  
The stampede cannot be stopped, so instead you urge them forward, "With me! With me! Mow them down! Freedom!"  
  
The drones disappear under their hooves, and you do not care enough to look back and see if they survived. All that matters is that they are free now, and happy. You can breathe easier already. It takes the better part of the night for you to return back to the desert, half the herd still following you. About then is when you realize that oxen need grass. You wonder for a moment what to do, but then remember that there are a few places you know about that probably no one else does. You lead them deep into the sands to the biggest oasis that you have never seen other tracks at. The shade from the trees would provide cover from the sun for them, and there is water and grass aplenty.  
  
*        *        *        *        *  
  
You make your way towards your hive feeling lighthearted and satisfied. That all ends when the first javelin whooshes by you to bury itself in the sand. You skitter to the side and swear fit to put the most hardened sailor to shame. Turning, you see the group rapidly gaining on you. It does not look like the locals come to route you from the area (because they _knew_ you were the reason their crops were failing or their quadrantmates left them) or the various ragtag groups of mercenaries or gangs you have beaten down before. No, that armor looked particularly... spiky.  
  
You pick up the pace, glad that your constant paranoia (although is it really paranoia if everyone is out to get you?) made sure that you were as physically fit as always. The good thing about not having armor is that you are about twice as fast as the drones. The bad thing is that when another javelin clips you, it spills some blood. Looks like they did not take kindly to being trampled at the market tonight. You slip down a dune to where they cannot see you and check the wound. Nothing serious at all. You calculate how far you are from your new hive and how many of them you can take. The answers please you.  
  
Taking off again, you make sure to serpentine a little bit to prevent any more javelin throwing. If that asshole's aim kept getting better with each shot, you would be skewered before you made it halfway there. After a few more close calls, you make it to the concealed entrance to your hive. There is no lawnring or any markings, but that is just the way you wanted. In fact, unless you are quite close already, the boulder does not appear to have any entrance at all. You glance backwards as you slip inside, making sure that your pursuers can see where you disappear. After all, it simply would not do to lose them after all this time.  
  
You skip across the stepping stones, your feet knowing their way despite the gloom. First thing is first. You have a waterfall of sand to hide behind. You duck under the hidden razor wire and sprawl on your belly facing the way you came. Now you wait. You hear the clumping footsteps of armored feet on rock, and then a scream as he missteps. The quicksand: 1, drones: 0. There is a second scream before the idiots figure out the trick to that trap and carefully move forward on the safety of the stones. They walk right past you, the pouring sand keeping you safe from their sight. You wait until the rear guard is walking by before you reach out with your axes and crisscross them in front of you. He screams as he goes down, but the sands quickly silence him. Quicksand: 3, drones: 0.  
  
You rush down the narrow tunnel to place the rest of your traps ahead of the intruders. Caltrops dropped here, check the snare there, make sure the bait is set on the deadfall trap. You glance up and see the boulder teetering above you. Looks like even their heavy, gallumphing footsteps will set it off. You move onward and set up a few more traps, razor wire to hinder and demoralize, foothold traps to wound, and a barrel of tar to reduce their movement. Your favorite, though, is a wire which when triggered pulls the firing mechanism of a ballista. After all, there is no kill like overkill.  
  
Their screams continue as they press onward. You have to admit, this is the first time you have had anyone make it this far into your domain. Most groups turn back after the first few traps, loudly exclaiming that no kid was worth this kind of work. These drones are annoyed at their losses, but pressing onwards regardless of injury. However, it is your inner sanctum that they should fear most of all.  
  
You wait for them there, an axe in each hand and your friends surrounding you. At the moment, they are calm. It is foolish for anyone else to think that they will remain so. The three drones that make it through are covered in scratches and drying tar gumming up their armor. The catch sight of you and freeze at your lopsided, lazy grin. The one that you suppose must be the highest ranking shoulders his way to the front.  
  
"You there! Feral! Under the Alternian Empire, I demand that you identify yourself!"  
  
"So sorry," your grin feels like it might split open your face. "Where are my manners? Welcome to my hive, drones, and may you all swiftly go to fuckin Hell."  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
You are picking through the armor to see if there is anything you can salvage from this debacle when a voice pipes up, "You know, you have an incredibly creative mind when it comes to maiming people."  
  
You whirl around, all claws and snarls to see none other than your murderbuddy. She looks quite at ease, reclined upon that chair and examining a dagger. There is not a single mark upon her to suggest that she ran amok any of your traps. Your eyes dart to the various beasts nearby, but none of them appeared even alarmed, let alone injured. You ease your stance a little. If she had wanted to kill you, she could have done that with your back turned.  
  
"You are missing one thing in this hive of horrors, however," she glances at you, almost coyly.  
  
"What's that?" you growl, not in any mood for this kind of chat.  
  
"A tiger trap," she states. "You know, those pits with the sharpened stakes at the bottom? I always did love those."  
  
You blink. Since your brain is stalling, your tongue decides to answer for you, "Hard to dig pits in sand, Assassin."  
  
"That it is," smiles the girl. "I could perhaps help you out with that."  
  
You side-eye her pretty hard, "Perhaps. Don't see why you would."  
  
"Likely for the same reason that I did not kill you at the market tonight," she shrugs lightly. "Or right now, when you were looting the bodies of some drones. Goodness knows there's always a reward for drone-slayers, Sol-born."  
  
"I don't like skirting around meanings with words," you bluntly state. "If you have a reason, say it. If you are toying with me, just know that you won't make it outta here alive once I'm dead. Even if I have to come back as a ghost."  
  
"You have a hard time with trolls, don't you?" she turns to survey your various friends. "You spend most of your time with these beasts."  
  
"I do jobs for trolls. Things that others can't or won't. And I've got Dia and Tav. Don't need much more."  
  
"Of course you don't. But you want it anyways, don't you?"  
  
You feel a tightness in the pit of your stomach, "Fuck off, Assassin. You don't know me or mine. I appreciate you not stabbin me in the back, but that only buys you so much politeness."  
  
"Have you even realized that your wound is still bleeding?" she suddenly changes direction. You glance down to realize that your bandage had loosened at some point during either your run or the fight. Your already dark pants are soaked with indigo blood.  
  
The stranger sighs, "You are the most incompetent person at taking care of yourself. How old even are you, Sol-born? Where is your lusus?"  
  
"A sight older than you, if you think you're makin me lower my guard with this shit," you snap. "I believe I told you to fuck off. That generally includes you leavin my hive."  
  
She stands and inclines her head, "Very well. I shall leave for now. Please do not be alarmed by the fact I now know how to enter your hive. I'm sure you will rearrange all the traps anyway. Perhaps next time we could meet outside?"  
  
"Only time I'd be meetin you is if we're killin the same guy again," you snarl. "Get! Before I really get mad and my friends here tear into that pretty face of yours so you look like a real assassin." She leaves without another word, and you sit heavily on the floor. A desert howlbeast comes over to nuzzle you, and you redress your wound as best you can. Stupid lowblood coming in here and making comments that somehow make your bloodpusher hurt. You are Sol-born. You are a Doombringer, a drone-slayer, sun-addled, twice cursed. You are the troll no one wants around and you know it. Even if you live to be as old  as the Wanderer, you will end up just like him. A desert nomad, free and completely alone.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"For the thousandth time, it is useless to try and disobey me," the ghost girl somehow manages to sound annoyed even with that dreadfully monotonous voice. Sometimes you wish that you could cut off your emotions as easily as her. Then you think about all your wonderful friends and decide that perhaps it was not worth it after all.  
  
"Would you two please calm down?" sighs the more reasonable spirit. "If Olly wants to go to town again, there is, probably, nothing we can realistically do about that, Aradia. Besides, he does need to restock on some supplies, even if he is, uh, not entirely truthful with his reasons on going."  
  
"That is true," she hesitates.  
  
"Look, you're not stoppin me either way," you snort. "I'm not your fuckin pet killin machine, Dia. If you've gotta job and the coin to pay for it, that's somethin else entirely. Otherwise, fuck right the Hell off."  
  
"Now, Olly," Tavros is turning towards you, and you duck under his enormous horns even though you know they are intangible. "Why don't we make a compromise? It's already high moon, so why not put off going into town until tomorrow? Tonight you and me will hang out for a little while. I'm sure you've got some new sick fires."  
  
"I have the hottest of pyres," you wrinkle your nose. "She's still not the boss of me."  
  
"She's trying to do what's best, you see?" responds the ghost boy. "That Aradia, she can fuss."  
  
"I think she likes to scream at us," you watch her shake her head and float away.  
  
You glare at the back of her head until Tav continues, "Probably she means no harm."  
  
"She's really very short on charm," you grouse. "Fine. Tonight I'll stay. You both have got to stop with this controllin bullshit, though. We're nowhere near pale enough for that."  
  
"Fair enough," he grins. "Now come do slam poetry with your ashen-buddy. I've been waiting, probably, a whole perigree to try out some fresh rhymes. Think you can, uh, give me a beat?"  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"-just a fuckin lowblood kid," your ears prick at the harsh voice. "No one will care iffin she's gone. 'Sides, the drones shell out half a silver for e'ry hiveless kid corpse you bring 'em."  
  
With a sigh, you turn into the alleyway that you had entirely intended on passing by. Assholes clearing out the streets for coin made your fangs grind, especially when it involved other kids. Your eyes widen as you take in the scene before. A bunch of greenies and a blue have surrounded a kid about your age, who is crouched down in a defensive pose with two daggers drawn. Although there has not been any blood spilt yet, she looks decidedly ruffled, as if they had hustled her into the dead end by force. You recognize her about the same time she spots you.  
  
"Fair enough," the blue shrugs. "Not our fault if she wasn't good enough to protect her own skin." He reaches forward and you realize what is about to happen. Oh _Hell_ no!  
  
His fist clips her shoulder just as your blades reach the closest oliveblood. She goes down with an ax buried in each side of her spine just below the shoulder blades and you use her falling body as a springboard right into the ceruleanblood's face. You introduce it to your forehead and hear the satisfying crunch of a nose crumpling upon impact. Landing on his chest, you stomp once to stun him before turning to the tealblood who you had first heard. His mace meets your axes, and the two of you deadlock while you are still standing on the big cerulean guy.  
  
"Fuck off right the fuck now before I fuckin get _really_ mad!" you snarl up into his face, completely unperturbed that he still has about two feet on you. After all, you have taken down bigger.  
  
"Shit, who's this punk?" one of the other greens complains, right before a dagger sprouts from his thoracic cavity. "When...?"  
  
"I believe the Sol-born asked you to leave as politely as he is capable of," sasses the girl as she pulls her blade free from his ribs. "You would be wise to heed him before he does anything reckless." Oh damn. You do like her style.  
  
The adults begin to shift uneasily and mutter. "Sol-born?" "Right there on his chest-" "Don't want anythin t' do wit' _that_ kinda-" "-bad luck to touch 'em." If you could wear your misery like armor, there would not be a single thing that could ever pierce it. Not slings nor arrows. Not blades nor bolts. And you decide that they never will. Fuck them. Fuck them all. They can shun, curse, and beat you; you will accept your punishment for this mark you cannot escape. But you will rend this whole planet down to the core with your bare hands in retribution first. The world begins to tremble around you and it takes a moment for you to realize that you are literally vibrating with rage.  
  
"Hey now," the woman who looks to be a teal raises her palms towards you. "We were just going to have a little fun, highblood. You're welcome to join us if you-" Your teakettle hiss would have interrupted her if your blades had not already opened her windchute. The remaining adults step quickly back to get out of your range.  
  
"Spray that fuckin heretical filth from _that_ hole, motherfucker," you can feel the pressure building. "Fun? You think this is _fun_? I'll show you fun!"  
  
With that, the brawl is back on.  
  
You hook your shoulder into a nearby olive's abdomen and literally flip him over your back as if he were a sack of flour. You are so done with this steaming pile of hoofbeastshit. If the bastards want to get their kicks from culling out defenseless pupas, they were going to have to start with you. Someone's fist clips the base of your left horn and everything explodes into colorful spots. Even with your vision thus impaired, a few sweeps with your axes clear the space around you. A warm body presses against you, all ragged fur and ribs. Looks like your backup arrived.  
  
Blinking hard a few times, you clear your eyes enough to leap back into the fray. Your acquaintance is hindered by the short range of her blades and her even smaller size, but she darts in and out of range so quickly that she had yet to receive any more wounds. You tackle the big ceruleanblood who is giving her trouble, sending him back down to the ground. The two of you roll, horns deadlocked and his meaty hands crushing at your arms. With a mighty toss of your head, you jab your right horn through his eye; with a quick headbutt, it thrusts into his braincase.  
  
As soon as your horn is free (don't even _want_ to look at the gloppy mess on it), you roll. That stupid glorified club slams down onto the blueblood's body. You leap to your feet and circle him, using this time to check up on the other kid. She is neatly finishing off the last oliveblood, so you lunge forward with a wide sweep of your arms. Eviscerating the tealblood with the mace, you leave him to bleed out as he tries to shove his organs back where they belong. Harsh breaths erupt from your mouth, and the hyena lusus is panting with his tongue lolling too.  
  
" _That_ was messy and entirely unnecessary," the girl's lips are a thin line as she wipes her blades clean with a rag.  
  
You snort before realizing your nose is bleeding profusely, "Was actually a little fun, though."  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
The instant you step out of the alley, you realize that the sounds of fighting had drawn some attention. There is a conspicuous empty area around the entryway. The few adults nearby shake their heads or mutter before turning back to their business. They either know of you or the lowlifes you just murdered, but either way they do not care enough to get involved. You spot some of the orphan waifs and street rats peering around some trash bins. The hyena lusus trots over to them, his belly already full of fresh meat, and a little lowblood pupa wraps his arms around his neck.  
  
You clear your throat loudly and announce to the thin air, "Probably like seven or eight greens and a blue in there. Bet they've got some coin on 'em, not to mention shit to hock."  
  
They stare at you for a moment.  
  
"I'm not gonna stand and guard the alleyway all night," you point out.  
  
The one with the hyena lusus comes out, pawing at his friends to follow, "Is okay. I know bout Sol. He's notta feral." All in a rush, they tumble forward, "Sol-born did it again!" "Hurry before the drones come!" "I wanna sword." "-all the street sweepers!"  
  
"You aren't taking any of it for yourself?" a curious voice asks you.  
  
"What use is coin when no one trades with Doombringers?" you eye the assassin as the pupas rush by you. "Mostly I charge on the principle of the matter. Kids, though... for anyone littler than me I work for free."  
  
"Yo, Olly! Olly Oxenfree!" someone is shouting. You turn to see what the fuss is about and realize that it is coming from a goldblood kid you have helped out before. You think you remember his lusus being put down for a nasty wound and he had needed to disappear until things calmed down. He trots up, "I see you're at it again, Oxenfree."  
  
"What the fuck's with the name, Broley?" you frown.  
  
"It's a title," he grins at you, all needle fangs. "Olly, Olly Oxenfree~! Has a ring to it, no? I started hearin Oxenfree after the market incident. People didn't know 'twas you. Or rather they don't know your name. So they gave ya one."  
  
"It's shit," you wrinkle your nose before abruptly remembering it was recently injured.  
  
"I dunno," shrugs the kid. "I think it grows on ya."


	2. Sylara

You watch the blueblood totter off, beaten and bruised and somehow grinning about it. Either he is completely mad or he has somehow discovered how to vent his highblood aggressions by routinely getting into brawls. You have never seen fighting so sloppy. He is quick enough with his axes (not to mention that nice indigoblood strength boost) to do some serious damage, but the concept of dodging seems to be beyond him. One would think he would have learned to sidestep by now, especially considering how much slower highbloods healed. That lowered metabolism would make even a small gash take days to close; that is why they are so tough to begin with. The harder it is to wound them, the less likely they will die from those wounds later.  
  
The goldblood had called him Olly. You wonder how he could have known that name, when after all your questioning and research all you had learned about the Sol-born was that he was muscle for hire. You had not even been able to find the lowblood kid that had contracted him to kill Lord Thippi and his hivemates. You decide to pursue this thought before the one called Broley slips away.  
  
"Are you a friend of the Sol-born?" you ask.  
  
He eyes you with mistrust, "Friend? Olly don't _have_ any friends. That's whaddit means to be a Sol-born. I hired him once, is all. What's the matter; you lookin for someone to do a job?"  
  
"What kinds of jobs does he do?" you try another tactic.   
  
"All kinds," he shrugs. "He's a merc. I've heard he's even repaired hives like a carpenterrorist. If yer worried he can't do it, don't. Olly don't do things half-way. Either he gets the job done or he'll die tryin, and he ain't dead yet. He's got the Devil's luck, that bastard."  
  
"Broley," a little lowblood pupa interrupts your conversation. "Drones are comin." He points in the direction of the inner city, where the troop had likely been dispatched to deal with the disturbance the two of you had caused. Although there is no sign of them yet, you do not doubt that the waif likely has some sort of psychic ability that tipped him off.   
  
"Right," he flips a copper coin to the kid. "Thanks, Dirt. Look, I gotta go, stranger. If all ya'll are smart, you'll be gone 'fore they get here, too." With that, it is a mad scramble as everyone attempts to get as far as possible from the scene of the crime. You watch the nearby adults pack up their wares calmly and surreptitiously disappear into the nearby taverns and shops. Deciding that tonight is not one you want to die on, you make yourself scarce as well. After all, you had been on your way to report back for a job well done and retrieve the rest of you promised pay. The mystery of the Sol-born would have to wait.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
It has been about a week since the last time you saw or heard anything about the Sol-born, Olly, so you have decided to check up on him. His wounds had not looked that serious when he swaggered out of the alley, but you know better than most how easy and necessary it is to hide any weakness from others. The boulder that marks the entrance to his hive comes into view before the moons have even reached their zenith.   
  
You carefully slip inside, fully expecting some sort of trap to be triggered. Instead, the area appears clear. Cautiously, you move along the stepping stones one at a time. Every few steps you pause and peer around for any signs of the glint of wires or metal. This was much less nerve-wracking the first time, when all you did was follow the drones and let them bumble into and through any traps that had been placed. Nevertheless, you manage to reach the interior of the hive without running across a single foothold trap or flaming arrow or tiger's pit.   
  
The room is completely barren. Not even footprints are left to suggest that anyone was ever here. You tentatively call out, but no response is expected. The sparse furniture has been removed, along with the bodies of the drones. Touching the stone, you realize that there are not even stains from the blood they had spilt. This Olly is nothing if not thorough. Although you have to wonder what kind of paranoid kid would completely abandon their hive once someone discovered where it was.   
  
With nothing left to do here, you turn to leave. You spot the parchment tacked onto the wall above the doorway you had entered. After determining that there are no wires or any other signs of tampering, you stand on tiptoe to tug it down. There is a sort of messy, scratchy writing scrawled over it. It reads:  
  
        _sorry assassin but i cant have you stabbin me in my coon one day. dont get nough sleep as it is  
        dia quite insists that i be polite but she can go fuck herself with ~~a rusty spoon~~ \- a SHARP rusty spoon  
        she says youd be a good ally. if i didnt hate her so much id agree  
        my ancestor might be lurkin round nearby. take the tunnel covered by the black slate slab_  
  
There is another message added below it in a much neater, blockier handwriting:  
  
        _MIND THE, UH, GAP_  
  
Your skin prickles with unease. Knowing that there might be a full-grown indigoblood watching your every move from an unknown location is not at all pleasant. After quickly glancing around, you locate the slab mentioned and struggle to heft it from it's groove in the floor. Stupid indigoblood must have not realized that you do not have his raw muscle power. Luckily, you have enough brainpower to make up for it. Using a staff as a lever and the joint of the slab and the floor as a fulcrum, you manage to pop it out of place. It does not appear that you will be able to seal it behind you, but that just meant that you would have to move quickly.   
  
The tunnel is low, as if purposefully carved out to make it difficult for adults to traverse. In the pitch dark, your eyes strain to catch any sign of unsure footing or further traps. You are about to praise this escape route as being well though-out and executed when suddenly the floor beneath you disappears. Luckily your outstretched hands had been trailing along the walls of the tunnel, and you grab hold of the minute fingerholds there. With some effort, you are able to lift yourself up and backwards to sit on the ledge of the sudden drop off. Pulling a flint and tinder out of your pouch, you light a small torch. It always pays to be prepared for anything.   
  
As your eyes adjust to the sudden increase of light, you note that the pit you are sitting at goes on and on until the darkness becomes too thick to penetrate. The path continues on a couple yards from where you are, still a straight tunnel moving onward. Mind the gap, indeed. Careful examination of the walls reveals that there are little indents carved at fairly regular intervals. Looks like the only way forward is to do some rock climbing.   
  
With the threat of the adult somewhere behind you, you secure your belongings and place the end of the torch in your mouth. Clambering along a wall sideways is much easier than climbing up towers, and you find yourself on the other side in moments. You douse the flames in sand and pocket your torch for later. No reason to let anyone else down here know where you are. You press onwards at a more cautious pace, even though you are fairly certain that was the only challenge you would come across. If you see this Sol-born character again, you swear you will give him the harshest of scoldings (and perhaps a new scar, since violence seemed to be the language he understood best).   
  
The tunnel abruptly gets brighter and you find yourself suddenly standing back out in the desert. The dunes and brush around you hide you and the tunnel from view, but you still feel horribly exposed. The stars twinkle merrily at you, forever out of reach in the open sky above. Your sign is up there, a twist of a constellation leading the way. You pull a hood over your head and strike out into the dunes, knowing to trust providence not to lead you astray.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"Assassin, I'm really startin to think yer stalkin me," a voice growls.   
  
"If I were stalking you, you would not even know I was here," your reply is chipper as you turn. As you suspected, there sits the indigoblood on the top of the dune you were walking by. Although his pose is fairly relaxed, your eyes dart to the various bandages adorning him. Those do not look like the same wounds he received during the fight in town. In fact, several of those bandages are still stained with his blue blood. And the eyepatch is also highly concerning.   
  
"Stop starin or I'll gut you," snarls the kid.  
  
"I do not remember your eye being injured in the brawl," you attempt to brush it off.   
  
His hand reaches upwards to tentatively brush against the fabric, "No, that'd be the run-in with the drones."  
  
You stiffen, "Why on Alternia would you go looking for a fight with some drones when you are obviously still healing from your previous caper?"  
  
He shrugs, "Didn't go lookin for fun. Got hired. I don't refuse a job 'cause of a few scratches. Still don't answer why you keep poppin up nearby."  
  
"Perhaps I was concerned about your well-being!" you snap before you thought about what those words indicated.  
  
The eye you can see has significantly widened. Then it narrows with suspicion, "Yeah, sure. Why would you ever care bout a Doombringer like me? Don't you know? My very existence is bad luck. I cause droughts, crops to fail, quadrantmates to leave you, equipment to break, even drones to target you for cullin. Who would ever 'be concerned' bout a monster like that?"  
  
"Is that what you think you are, Sol-born?" you feel a swell of pity. "A monster?"  
  
"Been told that since I hatched out durin the day," he spits contemptuously. "Wasn't lucky 'nough to hatch out under one of the signs like everyone else. You got it good, lowblood. You've got it good and you don't even know."  
  
"What kind of monster helps children?" you cut directly to the point.   
  
He startles at that, his limbs giving a little jerk as if he were thinking of moving and fighting it at the same time. His eye finds something interesting about the sand off to the left of you, "That's besides the point."  
  
"No, that is precisely the point," you counter. "You work hard, Sol-born. You work hard every damn night of your life to protect those who cannot protect themselves. You can calm pupas within moments and at the drop of a hat tear apart an adult with your bare hands. For what? To prove to wrong-doers that you are a monster to be feared or to the kids that you are not?"  
  
He sighs and stands, "Sister, you've got it all wrong. I don't have to _prove_ anythin to anyone. I'm a monster, through and through, but I'm a monster that craves justice. I'm okay with that."  
  
"Justice," you scoff, daring to start to climb the dune so that you can be on equal ground with him. "What, like those painted rainbow worshipers of the Grand Highblood? They serve the Empire. Who do you serve, nomad?"  
  
At this he thoughtfully considers you for a moment. Then, he gives a small, sad smile and clasps each hand around the opposite wrist, "I serve the greater purpose and those that _deserve_ the promised land."  
  
With that, he turns and disappears over the crest of the dune.   
  
You mind is starting to spin. A highblood like him as a follower of the Sufferer? That sect is normally reserved for lowbloods who hoped for days when he would come alleviate their own suffering. You considered yourself somewhat of an outlier on this point. But for a violence-loving indigoblood with so much wrath and pain, such a mantra of love and kindness towards all seems entirely like a contraindication. You reach the top of the sand and peer down into the little valley he should have been in.   
  
Although the indigoblood has vanished from sight, he has once again left a trail of bodies. The bits of spiked armor tell you that the mangled corpses are drones and it all comes together. He had literally just finished his job when you arrived on the scene. It is a small squad, only four drones, but to take them on alone in the open desert is nigh suicidal for even an adult. You pick through the debris carefully and pocket what you can, noting the distinct lack of weaponry. The items and coins you will distribute to those who need it later, much like you always do. Still, the blueblood concerns you, and you wish that, just for once, Olly would stay long enough for an entire conversation. You are quite certain that you would be able to figure him out if he would.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"What about the Sol-born?" one of the pupas wrinkles her nose. "He ain't been here in weeks."  
  
"I heard he died!" pipes up another eagerly.  
  
"No way!" a third exclaims. "He's never gonna die!"  
  
"Dumb-dumb," the first rolls her eyes. "Everyone dies."  
  
"Not him," grins the boy. "I've seen him fight. He looks just like a demon. Plus, I heard he eats troll hearts for every meal. He's gonna live forever and ever."  
  
"Ew, no way!" another boy gags.   
  
"Every meal?" the girl you asked is completely ignoring you now.  
  
You sigh, and their attention snaps back to you, "I see. Well, here's a few copper for each of you anyway. Let me know if you see him." You press onward, forever searching. Your jobs have been too thin- too far apart and too low-paying- for your liking lately. Although the loot from the drones had helped for awhile, you might have to resort to selling some of your supplies from one of your weapons caches. You are loath to part with anything valuable to your profession, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Three towns have passed under your weary feet, and no job nor sign of Olly could be found.   
  
"Be your name Sylara?" a voice interrupts your musing. You glance over quickly, worried that you have been caught off guard. The small lowblood adult looks back with flat brown eyes. The blue symbol on his chest, though, marks him as a member of a household. The Kratos household, to be exact. Not one you have dealt with before, but known to you nonetheless.   
  
"And if it was?" you survey the area, looking both for more possible threats and exits for a hasty getaway if needed.  
  
"Then you might have a job," the monotone voice answers. "My master would like an audience with you. Privately."  
  
"A job where a certain amount of discretion is needed," you smirk. "I know about those. I meet with clients only on my own terms. She can come find me at the old temple outside town. Alone, preferably. If she must have others with her, she is limited to two or three of her guards. Do you understand?"  
  
"I do," he nods, still as bland as ever. "I do not know how she will respond, though. Highbloods are not used to being treated in such a way."  
  
"Well, those are my terms," you shrug. "I know I come highly recommended, so she can either accept them or find another that provides my services." At this, he inclines his head and walks off. You know how to maneuver through the complicated politics of the highbloods through using a plethora of tactics. The one that is your fail-safe is the one you just employed: start off all negotiations with the upper hand. By forcing the noble to come to you, you ensure that not only are you not walking into a trap, but that the blueblood will have to think long and hard about just how badly she wants to hire you. This way you both know that you are serious and the coin exchanged will be premium.   
  
After all, you are one of the best at what you do.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"Explain to me _why_ exactly I am out here in the middle of nowhere," snarls the blueblood.   
  
You glance down at her from your perch on a half-demolished column. She's built big and lean, the natural counterpoint to the more muscular male highbloods you are used to seeing. That is to say that she looks like a body builder instead of a hulking drone-candidate. The two men with her are midblood guards, bought for their loyalty and disposability more than their physical or psychic prowess.   
  
"Because a troll in my position knows better than to walk into an unsecured location," you quip. "It wouldn't be the first time competition has tried to lure me out into the open."  
  
"Pah!" she sneers. "If I had wanted _you_ dead, I would have just taken care of it myself. No, the troll I want gone is one that is proving extremely difficult to approach at all. He's crafty and paranoid as all Hell. I've sent out three other assassins and each one of them has either gone missing or died."  
  
"You do realize that my fee will only increase with difficulty of the job, yes?"  
  
"You will accept what I pay you and be glad of it," she barks. "Anyway. I thought to myself why we were having so much trouble with this rabble-rouser. The only reason I could come up with is that he's a grub. So what better way to take out an annoying pupa than to hire a pupa? I'll even loan you these two lugs and my pet purpleblood if you manage to track this bastard down. What do you say?"  
  
You hesitate, "I do wonder what a teenager could have done to incite your wrath in such a manner. Also, I will need a name and symbol to appropriately track down my mark."  
  
"He wore no mark, but he referred to himself as Apollo," her cerulean eyes glint dangerously, "and the little shit killed my kismesis."  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"And you are quite certain that this is the Apollo kid?" you frown.  
  
"Y-yes!" your informant shudders as you toy with your dagger. His eyes dart to the lean, mean purpleblood killing machine behind you to the two olivebloods on either side. "I-I wouldn't be stupid 'nough to lie 'bout it! His name's Apollo."  
  
"How do you know he can be found in the canyon caves?" you press. You have a sinking feeling that either this is the easiest mark to track down because he has no need to hide... or the information is false.  
  
"A-ask any of the lowblood kids," stutters the teenager. "He went to go take out the bandits there. Something 'bout them movin' in on his territory."  
  
"Fair enough," you shrug and turn to one of the greenbloods. "He's telling the truth. We should check out these caves immediately. If we wait, he might have moved on."  
  
"Agreed," grunts the man. "Sir?"  
  
"As long as I get to kill _someone_ soon," the purpleblood licks his blade, "I'm down for anything."  
  
"Let us make haste then, and perhaps there will still be some bandits for you to slay as well," you suggest.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
Your knife glides through the brownblood's abdomen as if it were nothing but butter on a hot day, spilling his guts onto the rocky ground. With a twirl, you slice through his neck with its twin and move out of the way of the indigoblood lout trying to smash you into little pieces. This is not at all going according to plan. As soon as the purpleblood had cleared a path into the caves, he was to wait for you three midbloods to catch up to him. Instead, he had pushed right on into the caves and left the three of you to mop up the rest of the bandits. You skitter to the left as the oliveblood guard swings forward with his broadsword, all merciless calculation and annoyance. The other is wounded, but not badly.  
  
You hear quite a lot of screaming and commotion coming from the caverns. As soon as the two greenbloods are down to facing off the lone indigoblod, you decide that they can take care of this one themselves. Turning into the cool, dank entrance of the cave, you note the bodies littering the ground. Some of them appear to have been dead for a lot longer than the past few minutes. That does not bode well for your mission. The yelling up ahead is also concerning.   
  
There is quite a lot of noise, actually.   
  
"-my hands an we'll see who's a stupid motherfucker!" someone is screaming. Your ears prick as you turn the corner. You could have sworn that you have heard this voice before.  
  
What you see first are more bodies, likely all bandits. Some are so fresh they are still gasping for air despite the fact that they are on their way out. The purpleblood is leaning over a small troll (maybe a lowblood, but likely a kid) that appears to have his arms bound behind him in chains. Figures. Your mark had bitten off more than he could chew and gotten himself captured by the rogues. They were probably still trying to decide what to do with him when your group arrived. At least this meant that your job was significantly easier; in fact, the purpleblood will likely finish off your mark for you. With a sadistic gleam to his eyes, the highblood shifts and you get a clear view of the prisoner's face.  
  
"Olly!" you exclaim in shock.   
  
A slate-grey eye surrounded by indigo-colored bruises slides over to you, "Evenin', Assassin. Gimme a moment here."   
  
The purpleblood licks his lips disturbingly, "I'm gonna rip you apart nice and sloooow like, Blue. I bet you're a screamer."  
  
"I bet I could tear you apart if I weren't bound," counters Olly, his gaze snapping back to the grotesque face above him. "Come on, Purple. Afraid a kid could take you? Not much of a highbl-" One huge hand crushes around his throat, stopping the acidic words pouring out.  
  
"I think not, asshole," the highblood adult leans in close. "It's much more fun when they're helpless li-" He cuts off as the blueblood slams his head forward, catching him on the bridge of his nose. Their horns briefly clack together and there is a flood of purple. This is very bad. You quickly begin calculating all the possible scenarios in your head. The only conclusion you can come to is that you do not want Olly dead. Which means...  
  
"-fuggin' bitth!" snarls the adult with one hand clamped over his nose and the other still wrapped around the indigoblood's neck. "Yew gonn pay for-huuurg." You pull your dagger out of his side and stab him a few more times between the ribs while his hands are still busy. With a roar and a spray of blood, he moves to make a grab for you. As soon as his weight is shifted off Olly, you see the teenager roll to the side and struggle to his feet. Even with his arms bound, his first instinct is to get off the floor. You dodge as a wild swing comes towards you, but the enraged highblood is practically fighting blind at this point. Unfortunately that does not make him any less dangerous, considering he is double your size.   
  
"HEY motherfucker! I'm not done with you yet!" calls out the blueblood. "You 'fraid of the whoopin you'll get? Come to me and we'll see how beat you'll be. Our fight will be the highlight of my night. Ain't gonna-fuck!" He nearly gets crushed against the wall by the purpleblood's charge but manages to get away after just getting clipped. The chains around his arms are beginning to loosen, slicked with his own blood.   
  
"Interruptin me mid-stream is rude, dude," he flexes his arms, struggling to get them free as he circles the adult highblood.   
  
"I WILL CULL YOU ALL!" screeches the purpleblood in a mist of purple spittle.   
  
"Gross," Olly wrinkles his nose. Then he is too busy getting tackled to say anything else. Being the idiot that he is, instead of trying to dodge he simply digs his heels into the floor and takes the hit, digging his shoulder into the attacker's chest. He grunts on the impact, then moves to stand taller. The giant troll flips over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Providing a sack of flour could scream obscenities and threats. Pivoting on one foot, the teenager faces his opponent again. Your dagger somehow has found its way into the highblood's neck. He stares at the purpleblood for a moment before looking towards you.  
  
"I'm gonna guess that yer not here to kill me then," states the kid blandly.  
  
"You... you _absolute lunatic_!" you hiss. "You are injured and bound. Why on Alternia would you antagonize a giant fucking Roughannihilator?"  
  
"Seemed like a good idea at the time," he shrugs with a clatter of metal. You note he is still working his arms inside the chains.   
  
"Stop," you order and he freezes by ingrained response as you approach. "You're making your wounds worse. Give me a moment and I can release you." He bares his fangs as you go to move behind him, turning to keep you where he can see you. "Seriously?" you raise an eyebrow. " _Seriously_?"  
  
He adverts his gaze and mutters, "Sorry. Instinct."   
  
You find the knotted end of the chain and quickly pick it apart, "If I wanted you dead I would have let the purpleblood finish you off. How did they even tie you up to begin with? With as paranoid as you are- There you go." The mangled flesh you have revealed under the chains has strange patterns of bruises and lacerations from wrist to well above his elbows. Some tattered remnants of his shirt remain, but these are soaked in blood and peeling from his skin.   
  
"Vast superior numbers," he grunts, wincing at the movement of the abused limbs as he attempts to roll his shoulders. "Fuckin shitstains thought they could move in to my desert and set up shop. Took out a good swath of 'em 'fore they overwhelmed me. Psychics are fuckin annoyin."   
  
"You don't say," your voice is laced with condescension. Surely he must realize that he himself is an annoying psychic.  
  
His nostrils flare and he turns to the entrance of the recess, "Hullo there, mates. You wanna piece of me? There's probably still enough left to go 'round." Fuck you had completely forgotten about the two greenbloods.   
  
"Hello again, Apollo," one sneers. "You're certainly looking worse for wear this time."  
  
"So are you," he retorts, staring pointedly at the green wound.  
  
"Wait," your thinkpan finally catches up with the situation. " _You're_ Apollo?"  
  
He glances at you before his attention goes back to the adults, "We never got properly introduced. Name's Apollo Ollopa. Also known as Olly, Sol-born, medicutioner and mercenary for hire, Desert Strider, Doombringer, Little Wanderer, and apparently now Oxenfree."   
  
"...of course you're Apollo," you rub your forehead. " _Of course_ you are. Holy Signless this is turning into a clusterfuck of a night."  
  
"Welcome to my life," he grins widely. "Now, which one of you Greenies want to die first?"  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"You do realize that woman is not going to give up, right?" you clean your blades with efficient strokes as the indigoblood takes a breather by leaning against the wall.  
  
"I'll go take care of it once I'm healed up," he shrugs. "No big deal."  
  
"I was the fourth assassin she'd hired and you think that it's 'no big deal?'" you throw your dagger into the sand and turn to face him directly. "Olly, you've _got_ to start thinking things through. She only sent the greenbloods and me because we were expendable, but the death of the Roughannihilator is only going to piss her off more. She said you killed her kismesis."  
  
"Well, yeah," he shrugs. "You were there."  
  
"Wait... the pedophile?" you gape. "Lord Thippi? Oh my Gog. She doesn't know I was the one sent out to assassinate him. She thought it was you. Damn it, now I will have to take her out before she realizes her mistake and comes for me. But then she's the leader of a large hive -Oh, hell! Now I've got to clear out her whole hive."  
  
You note at this point that Olly is watching you with a fairly bemused expression. You feel irritated, "What?"  
  
He shakes his head slightly, still grinning faintly, "Nothin. You know... I cleared out Thippi's entire hive. If you had a spot of coin, I could loan you my services."  
  
"You're kidding," your eyes narrow. "Besides, what happened to taking cases for free if your client was smaller than you?"  
  
"Hmm," he steps forward, placing a hand on the top of your head and measuring your height compared to his. You only come up to his chin. "Yep. Fair nough. Name's Apollo Ollopa, Doombringer, at your service." He holds out his hand, oblivious to the blood dripping down his elbow to the ground.  
  
You take his huge paw in your own hand, "Sylara Talvar, Assassin. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Now let me patch you up before you get gangrene and die horribly."  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"I cannot believe that you don't even have a hive," he is still obsessing over this fact as he strides over dunes as if their steep angles were nothing more than a paved road. "Everyone has someplace to call home. Even _I_ have a hive!"  
  
"Having a known location...that I return to...but leave unattended...for large amounts of times...would be a very bad idea," you defend between pants. "It was simply not...worth the risk."  
  
He pauses at the crest of the dune and turns back, "Are you runnin outta steam already, Assassin?" Despite the white bandages covering every exposed inch of his arms, his eyes are twinkling merrily at you. If you could bottle and sell whatever natural high he is on, you would be rich.   
  
"Not everyone runs up and down dunes all night!" you catch up to him.   
  
He suddenly frowns, "Hmm. We'll hafta find you a ride for the assault, then. You gotta keep up with my pace or my friends might set onto you."   
  
"You mean your ravenous and probably rabid beasts," you correct, taking a sip from your waterskin. "I can fetch my own ride. My lusus normally transports me when I need speed."  
  
His grin is suddenly wide and almost blinding, "You'll need speed where I lead, to bend like the reed, to wind read. Our creed to make the highbloods bleed we will heed until done with the deed. My steed agreed to exceed all expectations."  
  
"Oh almighty Signless, please stop," you wince. "Where did you even learn slam poetry?"  
  
"Learned from my good friend Tav," his grin falters. "He's a lowblood psychic, but he learned from highbloods himself. And if nothin else we can drop some sick beats."   
  
"While I concede that your rhymes are ill, I must precede with a plead for you to recede, before you impede our chance to succeed at our task," you answer him in the most eloquent manner. "Now, if you-" You are interrupted by a high-pitched noise. Hesitating for a moment, you turn to look at him. "Did you just-"  
  
"Nope!" he answers far too quickly. "Come on, Assassin. We've got awhile to go yet." He turns away from you deliberately, as if trying to hide is rapidly blueing face.  
  
"You totally just squeed," you cannot help the smile forming on your face. "I've never actually heard that before. A high-pitched exclamation of happiness, much like that of purring. Did you know that only about fifteen percent of the trollian population in the whole world can even make that noise?"  
  
"You didn't hear anythin," retorts the kid as he trods down the other side of the dune.   
  
"Sure I didn't," you roll your eyes. "Hey. Does that mean you can churr too?"  
  
"No!" he quickens his pace.   
  
"You sure? I could always scritch around the base of your horn to-"  
  
"I SAID NO!"  
  
You chuckle to yourself quietly as you follow the practically stomping indigoblood. Although flustered, he apparently could still keep up his daunting pace. With any luck, you would reach your destination well before the sun began to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy cow what is even this?? two chapters in one night?? its motherfuckin christmas up in here yo!!
> 
> seriously though. sorry bout the wait. workin through some issues and whatnot on this side of the screen. i will try to not let all my stories go so long without an update again though.
> 
> in other news- gotta love olly. just. **facepalms**


	3. Olly

"For the last time, that dreadfully high-pitched squawk did _not_ come from outta my windchute!" you snarl, stomping into your hive.   
  
"It's nothing to be embarrassed about, Olly," chides the assassin, not believing you for a moment. "It's actually rather cute." When you throw your arms up in exasperation, she blissfully ignores the resulting cringe as she continues, "Most trolls cannot even squee. It's a sign of delight we either outgrow when we pupate or never even had to begin with. You know, the fact that you seemed surprised by it is-"  
  
"Shh!" you hiss and she thankfully heeds you. Your nostrils flare as you scent the air. "Somethin's not right." A quick scan over your entrance reveals what is wrong. There is a small pupa huddled up behind some barrels, wrapped in a tattered blanket. About ten inches to his back lies one of the tripwires for a nasty trap.   
  
"Come out from there slow like," you calmly tell him. "Either straight sideways or over the barrel. There's a booby-trap right behind ya, idiot." He startles and then freezes before sheepishly climbing over the obstruction towards you.   
  
You sigh, "Didn't the others tell you to wait outside if I don't answer?"  
  
"Broley said iffen I didn't move much it would be okay," he huddles into his blanket miserably. With a trained eye, you look him over. His clothes are tattered and dirty, his hair unkempt. Some of those scrapes look like they had not even been properly cleaned, let alone bandaged.   
  
"Orphaned?" you bluntly ask. He nods, tears welling up.  
  
"Don't cry," you snap and he is so surprised that he obeys. "Cryin is a sign of weakness. Now is not the time to be weak. You gotta hive?" A even more miserable shake of his head. "Okay. It's easier if you do, but we can work with that. Age and blood color?"  
  
His face is crumpling as he answers, "Th-three and go-gold."  
  
You nod smartly, "Right. Then I can introduce you to the lowblood crew up in the cliffs area. I think Immint and Leowan are still in charge up there. You should fit right in." You turn to the assassin, apologetic, "Sorry. Looks like I'm backtrackin. You can wait here if you want."  
  
She shakes her head obstinately, "I'd rather go with you than wait in this deathtrap of a hole."  
  
"Hey now," you growl, "this is my hive and I'd appreciate it if you'd-" The sound of sobbing makes you shut the fuck up immediately. Glancing at the kid, you can see that he could no longer hold in his tears. You half-groan and half-sigh. "Gog fuckin dammit all to Hell. C'm here." You scoop him up, letting him wrap his arms around your neck and his legs around your waist. He buries his head into the area where your neck and shoulder meet, and you have a brief flash of anxiety that he is going to try to rip your jugular out. With one arm supporting him, you go and rummage through another barrel until you find your travel pack.  
  
"Right," you shoulder the bag. "Let's grab a ride."  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"When you said that we were going to hitch a ride on wild beasts, I thought you were joking," complains the assassin.   
  
You grin and tighten your grip on the pupa as you hit a particularly bumpy section of the path, "My lusus is a bit distinctive out here. Besides, never seen the cliffghasts attack predators. You'll be wantin the protection soon enough."  
  
"Lovely," she mutters, her arms crushing at your waist. You resist the urge to snicker. Barely. The loping strides of the howlbeast cause the sand to fly by beneath you. Normally she would only be able to carry one troll, but you are all young and relatively lighter than an adult. Besides, you took good care of your friends. She was definitely more muscular and in better health than a purely wild wolf. Also, her three pack mates following close behind are added protection as well as excellent pack animals. You had suggested that the midblood could ride one of them, but her distinct distrust of their fangs was more than enough to convince you that it was best if your friend gave a ride to all three of you.  
  
The cliffs are not far from the caves that you had just spent the better part of the night; in fact, the caves are at the bottom of the cliff face. However, this time you are high above the caves, wandering along until you reach the outcropping that looks vaguely like a pile of boulders. Anyone passing by might assume that it was a natural formation of rocks, or perhaps a nest for the cliffghasts circling far above you. You, of course, know better.  
  
"Yo!" you call out as you lock your legs in front of the wolf's chest. This causes the howlbeast to slow her strides, eventually coming to a halt. The pack behind her catches up and then settle in to wait. "I know you're in there, assholes. It's just me. I've brought some friends."  
  
"Olly?" a head pops up from behind a nearby rock. "Hey, guys! It's just Olly!"  
  
All around you, the previously desolate landscape springs to life with emerging pupas and teenagers, all chatting and clamoring at once. "Olly's here!" "Olly!" "-brought the howlbeasts this time." "-at that little guy."  
  
"You just dropped by last night," Leowan approaches your pack, but remains a safe distance away as you dismount, "so we weren't expecting you back so soon."  
  
"Wasn't plannin on it," you grunt as your feet hit the ground. "Got rid of those bandits below, so the coast is relatively clear. I also picked up another member for the crew."  
  
At this her eyes dart down to the pupa still clinging to you, "Ah. Hello there, young one. I'm Leowan. What's your name?"  
  
He hides partially behind you, "'m Nathan."   
  
"He's an orphaned gold," you explain. "I figure he'd fit in alright here. You've still got those bronzebloods that are about his age, right? Dunno if he's psychic; forgot to ask."  
  
"I can make things hot," he helpfully supplies.   
  
The rustblood girl smiles gently, "That's very nice, Nathan." She looks back to you, "We have the room for him, but perhaps not the supplies... we can stretch them. Always have managed it before."  
  
"Ah, hang on I actually thought bout that!" you turn, with the pupa still attached to your side, and whistle for the wolf carrying your pack to come over. After you retrieve your supplies, he returns to his group silently. You turn back to the slightly apprehensive Leowan, "Oh, come on, Leo. My friends are always well-behaved when I bring them up here. Anyway, this should tide you guys over for awhile, but some of you will have to head into town to buy the stuff. Send Immint and Drayot. They are the least likely to get into trouble or get swindled."   
  
Her eyes widen when you pass the heavy bag to her, hearing the unmistakable clink of coin, "Sure thing, Olly. Would you like to join us for midmeal?"   
  
You look to the assassin, "What do you say, Syl?"  
  
"I say that sounds marvelous," she replies. "Although I do wonder where the Syl came from."  
  
"All my friends get nicknames," you shrug. "Right. Come on, Nathan. Let's get you settled in and fed."  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"And the water is pulled from the reservoirs all the way at the bottom of the cliff?" the assassin is wide-eyed with amazement.  
  
"Yes," nods Leowan. "We have so many psychics that it is no trouble at all, much like the illusionary camouflage over our complex. Here, everyone works to keep things running smoothly."  
  
"Dear Gog... it's an actual communist hive created out of nothing but pupas and a few teenagers," she gapes at the garden full of growing vegetables and medicinal herbs. "Cooperation for the good of the whole. Do you have _any_ idea how coveted this would be? This entire system is practically flawless."  
  
"Well, Olly was actually the one who helped found it," the rustblood immediately tries to take the spotlight off her. "He brought the first of us here, taught us how to farm and irrigate and hunt. After we were established, he left again, putting myself and Immint in charge. Ever since, he drops off money or supplies, along with the occasional orphan. We've grown quite large now. With Nathan that makes thirty-four of us."  
  
"Really?" she eyes you in an appraising way.  
  
You shrug under Sylara's scrutiny, "Weren't nothin. 'Sides, the kids are good. They had to teach themselves how to do all the other stuff. Like sewing and cooking and government."  
  
"He's too modest," disagrees Leowan. "Most of us would be dead by now if it weren't for him. And we aren't the only community he has set up. There's another three in the desert and one in the swamp. That I know of, anyway. He's quite the secretive one."  
  
You sigh exasperatedly, "Now, Leo. The idea is that you know of at least three other places you can go should this hive be found or threatened. Speaking of which, you all need to expand again. The Oasis Group has fourty-six kids right now, and I don't want them to have no place to stay if something happens."  
  
"You work faster than we can dig sometimes," she shakes her head.   
  
"Was not my intention," you shrug. "Had a bit of a crisis in Bretthin Town; lowblood massacre by invading highbloods. Got as many of them out as I could. If you are running out of room, then take over some of the cliffghast caves. Push them into the lower ones or further to each side. Take the ones directly below yours and remodel them into restingblocks and storageblocks. I can route them out, if you think you'll need the help."  
  
"No, we can probably manage that on our own," a hand waves dismissively. "That is... quite a good idea, actually."  
  
"Why does everyone always sound so surprised when they say that?" you frown.  
  
"Probably because most of your ideas involve charging at something and beating it with your bare hands until it stops moving," snarks the assassin. They all laugh at your expense, but it is a good kind of laugh. It is almost infectious. Despite your best attempts to look put out, you are quite certain that the corners of your mouth are pinched upwards in a traitorous fashion.   
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
You stare at the ceiling, wondering when it had become so detailed and intricate. You certainly do not remember that web of cracks looking like a constellation of symbols. Nor did they previously seem to glow with warmth and color. Wait. What?   
  
You struggle to sit up, your body feeling sluggish and unresponsive. Your sight is narrowed into a vague tunnel that appears to be moving in and out around you. Suddenly the image of Sylara sipping tea at your table jumps into focus. Betrayal is a new emotion for you.  
  
"You!" you splutter, suddenly accusatory and incensed. "You _drugged_ me!"   
  
She glances over, cool as a saltlicker, "Oh? Did you finally notice that?"  
  
Ouch. "Fuckin bitch!" you continue. "Iffen- if you- if you try anythin I swear those wolves will- will fuckin tear you to shreds!"  
  
Her expression suddenly looks hurt, followed by irritation, "Of course I'm not going to hurt you, you absolute dolt! I simply grew tired of trying to keep up with a pace that was literally killing you, so I'm enforcing a night off. You are going to laze about, let your wounds heal, and actually sleep for once in your miserable existence."  
  
"But- but the raid!" you are utterly confused. "We have so many-so many- all the plans to make! We need weapons- weapons and supplies. And reconnaissance! We need that. It's a- a good thing." You pause, your brain still scrambling to put together words, "What the ever-everlovin _fuck_ did you give me?"  
  
"I simply put some sopor in your tea," she shrugs. "Although considering your reaction, I might have given you a bit more than necessary for your exhausted state. Luckily the margin for error is quite high on sopor. Just sleep it off and you'll feel better in a couple nights."  
  
"I _hate_ you," you grumble, finally giving up on sitting to slump back to the floor.   
  
"Sure you do," she replies. "Do you think you can make it to your recuperacoon or do I need to help you?"  
  
"Dun have one," you tell the pebble by your head. You swear it is glowing. Is this what sopor overdose is like? Everything is warm and fuzzy. "Don't travel well. I just-just sleep on the floor- such a nice floor." Something warm and furry comes over and lies down with you. Probably one of the wolves. Perhaps your panther. You are too concerned with how the room lists to look over and check, though.   
  
"Of course you don't even own a recuperacoon," sighs the assassin. "Only a paranoid psycho like yourself would sleep dry every single day. Do you at least promise me that your beasts will not devour me as soon as you are asleep?"  
  
"Not-not at all," you growl, but it is weak and nonthreatening. If she replies, you do not hear it. You give up on struggling against the sopor and instead allow your eyelids to droop. Just a quick nap, you tell yourself. A quick nap and then you will be up and kicking ass in no time at all.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
"Ugh!" you roll over to your side, kicking the blanket off your legs. Your menagerie of beasts shift around you. Apparently they had become concerned with your comatose state and come to lie with you. Either that or they were leeching off what little warmth your blue blood provided in the middle of the desert days.   
  
"Good evening, moonshine!" a chipper voice greets you.   
  
"Fuck off," you snarl, still not ready to get off the floor yet. You feel strangely stiff, as if you had not moved much during your sleep. That is certainly odd. Normally you toss and turn, sleeping in fitful bursts. "What time is it?"  
  
"It is just past moonrise," she answers. "You have slept for two nights and days straight."  
  
"WHAT?" you struggle upwards, casting about for your friends. "Two nights? The howlbeasts need fed, and the sandworm and the rocs! I have to go to see Myatii and Grievo and make sure that those four highblood kids I dropped off last perigree aren't causin trouble! There's reconnaissance to do and bandits to track and-"  
  
"Whoa, hold your hoofbeasts," small hands are snatching away your cloak as you reach for it. Sylara holds it behind her as if this will actually stop you, "You just woke up from a coma. At least sit down, eat something, and wait for your pupils to stop being two different sizes before you go galloping off to right the entire planet."  
  
"Nnngh," you make a grumble of annoyance. "You don't understand. I'm runnin late, Syl. There is a set schedule for all my shit. I hafta check on the kids regularly or things fall apart. I hafta take care of my friends or they start eatin any random troll that wanders by. I got things I have to do. I gotta get movin."  
  
"Sit," her voice is hard and flat. You blink and pull back a bit. She points to the chair, "Right now!"  
  
You slink over, rubbing grit from your eyes. As soon as you are seated, a plate magically appears in front of you. There's even silverware. You do not even own silverware or plates. You own a dagger for hacking apart large chunks of meat and a bowl to drink tea or soup. Everything else you eat by hand. She glares and you stop staring and start snarfing down food. This has got to be the most surreal experience you have ever had.   
  
Once the food is gone, you bolt from the table to snatch your cloak from her. She saw this and twirls it out of the way. With a grin, she waves it tauntingly in front of her. You eye her with much suspicion. Then you feign disinterest before lunging for it again. This time she lifts it up and away, sidestepping so that you bullrush nothing but empty air.  
  
"Ole!" she grins.   
  
You gape.   
  
"No..." you shake your head. "You didn't."  
  
"I did!" the grin widens. "Now. If you let me check your bandages, you can have the cloak."  
  
You glare, "Why don't I just leave without the cloak?"  
  
"Because it's below freezing outside and even you aren't that dumb or coldblooded to do that," she holds out a hand expectantly. "Give me your arm. You're no good to anyone if you lose both of them from infection and rot. Or frostbite."  
  
Groaning and otherwise making your displeasure known, you surrender your left arm to her busy hands. You twitch with impatience as she unravels the bandages, cleans the wounds, and then redresses them. Then she starts on the next one. Although you do have to admit that bandaging both your arms would be difficult by yourself, you do not like how they restrict your movement. Looks like you are going to be relying on your friends a bit more than usual until you can heal up properly.   
  
"There, you whiny grub!" she pushes your right arm away. "At least you appear to have started closing up those wounds, but it will probably still be a week before the bandages can come off for good."   
  
"Well....shit," you sigh. "Didn't seem all that bad to me. _Now_ can I have my fuckin cloak?"  
  
She forks it over, "You certainly have a one-track mind. We are still going to go clean out the Kratos house, correct?"  
  
"Yeah," you rub your face. "Sure. Um. Okay. That probably should have higher priority. As the extermination expert, I vote we gather supplies tonight and move out durin the day. I normally prefer fightin with no advantages, but this is gonna be a huge operation. Where's the hive located?"  
  
"About half a night's walk away," answers the assassin.   
  
"No, I mean the terrain," you clarify.  
  
"It is located more towards the coast, on the plains," she replies. "I do not see how that matters."  
  
You frown as you throw your cloak over your shoulders, "Of course it matters! Which of my friends come with me depends on who is best suited to the job. Just like I won't take hoofbeasts where the ground is uneven or climbin is required, I'm not taking Bob to the cliffs."  
  
"What kind of name is Bob?"  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
You pad through the the lower reaches of the dungeon, quiet and intent on your quest. Beside you, the panther is even more silent. This is how you learned to hunt. Nothing but yourself, a few blades, and a beast by your side. You had watched them take down countless prey, absorbing their every motion. Very few trolls realize it, but each type of beast has their own distinct language- most of which is completely silent. Movement and smells are supreme with them, and their meanings are as varied and numerous as the stars in the sky. You know them all.  
  
You know the high-pitched grunts of the crocodiles and the way their eyes close when stressed. You know the slight tilt of a roc's head that means it is about to swoop down on some poor soul. You know the difference between a stressed grin and a happy grin on a barkbeast, and when to trust neither. You know the signs of trust, of discomfort, of anger, of sorrow and pain. You also know that the sudden stilling of the panther's tail means that it just spotted prey. You crouch in synchronization, troll and beast both prepped for a pounce onto an unsuspecting enemy.   
  
The lowblood psychic really should have seen you coming.   
  
Still, you are searching. You move on, leaving his body to the panther. The best part about raids is that they feed your friends. They feed them well. With a whistle, you signal your pack. The howlbeasts emerge from the entryway you had left them waiting at, full of eagerness for the hunt. Their noses will help guide you. In no time at all, the target is located. As they set onto the greenblood dungeonmaster, you jingle the keyring.   
  
"Come on, help a fella out?" a one-eyed goldblood is begging from his cell.   
  
You look him over, "Tried to steal from the Kratos house, did you?"  
  
His shoulders raise defensively, "Everybody's gotta try to get by somehow. You would do the same."  
  
You stare at him for a moment before realizing that he assumed you were some sort of burglar. Well, perhaps in another life you could have been one. However Dia had prepped you for a life of something a bit more dangerous than common thievery. Also, for someone like you it would be hard to hock goods. You tap the symbol on your chest, "No. Not really."  
  
He shrinks away from the bars, "Shit, you're-"  
  
"A Doombringer, yeah," you shrug. You pull off the key you need and toss the rest into his cell, "Wait bout an hour 'fore you come outta there. By then, either I'll be dead or gone. You let the others out, too. Would hate to hafta come back and take your other eye."  
  
You pad away with another whistle, calling your beasts to you. They mill about before falling into place, their bellies significantly larger than before. Looks like today will be a good one for them. Your entourage leaves the way it came, right through the front door.   
  
"Did you get the key?" a voice hisses. You crane your neck to find the assassin has found her way up to the rafters above, where she peers down from her swath of grey clothes.   
  
You flash the prize, "My end is done. The guards?"  
  
"Dead as doorknobs," she confirms. "It was quiet and quick."   
  
"Then let's go kill ourselves a noble," you grin.  
  
*       *       *       *       *  
  
" _You_!" spits the woman. "What do you think you're doing? I hired you to kill him, not bring him home like a tribute! And what took you so long? Where's Rodrig?"  
  
You really hated this part of the plan. The ropes chaff your wrists where the skin is bare, and for once you are actually glad of your bandages. However, it is easy to glare at the woman with venom as Syl blithely replies something. You are too busy sensing how many are in the room, and where your friends can make the most strategic difference. Damn lowbloods were probably psychics and going to be a huge pain in the ass. The blueblood bitch is suddenly in front of you, and you hear the magic words.   
  
"-shitstorm of fighting," finishes the assassin.  
  
With a roar, you snap the brittle ropes and lunge for Kratos at the same time. Beside you, Syl drops into a crouch and those shiny flashes should be her throwing knives at the psychics. The doorway behind you erupts into pandemonium as your friends rush in to attack. All that matters to you, though, is the blueblood bitch you are fighting. She's bigger than you (they always are), but she obviously was not prepared for an ambush from what had appeared to be a beaten and bound prisoner. You manage to get one of her arms pinned and the other between your jaws.   
  
There is just something about a good fight. You emotions take a step back, teetering on the edge of excitement and terror as your adrenaline pushes you through. If it is your day to die, then you would rather go down swinging. No begging or whimpering for more time, no pleading or bargaining. No fear. Honestly what is there to fear from death? It has followed you closely all your life. You wear your misery like armor, but death is your shrouded cloak that keeps you hidden.  
  
"-ly?" you hear someone's voice. You blink as if waking from a dream. You had been following a thought and fallen down the hopbeast hole again. These little episodes often leave you empty and disoriented. Sometimes you wonder where your mind takes you. Most of the time you are just bewildered and blank.  
  
You have to unlock your jaws and remove them from something before you can answer, "Yeah?"  
  
"I think she's dead now," a hand gently rests upon your shoulder. Kratos lies slumped on the floor before you, her throat ripped out by someone's fangs. You wipe your jaw and it comes away slicked with her cerulean blood. You stare at it for a moment, wondering when you had released her arm. "Let's go back to your hive, Olly."  
  
You follow her as docile as a lamb.  
  
*        *        *        *        *  
  
He is mammoth, he is ancient, he is _pissed_. You dodge under one of his arms as he swings, yelling at Syl to get the Hell out of the hive. To run. To flee. She hesitates still at the entryway, clutching her wounded side. There had been a sickening crunch when his fist had connected with her- the familiar sound of ribs breaking. You spend a split-second too long looking towards her and a mammoth hand finally connects with you.   
  
The backhand sent you flying, but the adult followed soon after. As soon as you hit the wall, he is there. Grabbing at your cloak, he smears you down the wall like paint in the Grand Highblood's halls. You grunt when you hit the ground and suddenly pressure surrounds your throat. Shit. He has you pinned by the neck. There is little you can do to fight back.   
  
"You," he growls and his voice is so low and deep it reverberates in your chest. "What do you think you are doing?"  
  
"Fuck off," you snarl back, trying so desperately to sound just as big and threatening as him. You fail utterly.   
  
The pressure on your neck increases as he grabs a tattered remnant of cloth to shove in your face, "Do you see this?" You know what it is without even looking. It is the same symbol that always haunts you, no matter how far you run or how long you hide. If you could kill an idea, this would be the first one you targeted. The irony is not lost on you.   
  
"This is our sign," he continues. "We are Doombringers. We deal in death and misery. What is that _bitch_ doing throwing her arm so familiarly around your shoulders?" You hiss out what air is left in your lungs defiantly, and he eases up on the pressure. "Answer me!"  
  
"No one, old man," you grit out through bared fangs. "Someone who just helped me finish a job."  
  
"Funny," he looks anything but amused. "Because here I thought you were out trying to fill quadrants while I mopped up after your mistakes." You freeze as he continues, "Oh yes. You've made some more of those lately. For example, you left some of those bandits to the west alive. In fact, quite a few of them. They came looking for you. They found me instead. I do not like to be disturbed." He pauses, watching you clutch at his wrist and squirm under his grip, "So weak. You are such a disappointment. You take after-" He catches himself with a sigh.   
  
"You there!" he turns his attention towards the assassin. "I don't suppose you would tell me the truth of your intentions with my hapless progeny, hmm? Something red, perhaps? Or maybe something a bit paler than that."  
  
"That is none of your business, sir," she stands firm. "Although Olly is telling the truth. We've just returned from a hive invasion."   
  
"'Sir,'" he scoffs. "Hark the wench! 'Sir!' Such blatant disobedience. I'll have you know that if you have any grandiose ideas of taking on Apollo in a quadrant, you will surely regret it. Doombringers tend to kill those that are near them. I've seen many quadrantmates come and go in my lifetime. None of them lasted more than a sweep. If you value your life, leave now. I will not pursue you."  
  
Her eyes find yours, and something in her face smooths out and stills, "I think, sir, that I will take my chances."  
  
"Pah! What a waste of life," he turns back to you. "You see this girl? She'll be dead within a perigree or two, and it will be all your fault. Now. What am I to do about this business of the bandits?" You see the glint of metal and flinch as it comes to hover over your eye. "I believe last time you made a mistake, I warned you that I would do more than leave you a scar to remind you. This time I think I will take your eye."  
  
Your mind starts to stall. Fuck. Your eye? You really liked that eye. It helped you with depth perception and shit. Damn you were going to have to find that lame eye patch again. Then the knife is withdrawing and you realize that your ancestor is screaming. There appears to be something metallic sticking out of his side. Several somethings. Your head is beginning to spin and your vision fading.   
  
"-eye alone or I will be forced to take more drastic measures," the assassin is saying.   
  
"I would have let you walk free, gutterblood," snarls the ancient adult, "but now that you have spilt my blood, I think you deserve a good culling. I'll be right back, descendant." With one final shove, the pressure on your neck suddenly vanishes. You roll to your side, gasping. As you struggle to pull in air through your much-abused windchute, you see him advancing on your tiny friend. Next to you, she is just small. Retreating from your ancestor, she looks miniscule. You realize that he really means to kill her and your panic rises.  
  
You stick two fingers in your mouth and give a short whistle, wasting what little breath you had managed to regain. You see the adult half-turn to see what you are up to, but you are already scrambling to your feet as the ground begins to tremble. You have to move. You have to reach her. You have to get the fuck out of here before all Hell breaks lose. Luckily you are smaller and lighter on your feet than the ridiculous hulk of a troll between you and Syl. He makes a grab for you, but you duck under his arm without any trouble. You reach her while still going full throttle, simply wrapping your arms around her as you both are knocked to the sands outside.   
  
The tremors turn into a huge rumble of falling rocks and full-blown earthquakes. What bursts out of the sands right in front of you is a small sandworm. Its beady eyes rove over you, and you move to cover your friend more completely. Then he spots your ancestor emerging from the cave, even more pissed than usual. With a screech that sends shivers down your spine, the worm lunges for him. You turn away, concentrating on covering the smaller kid with your own body. When dealing with a wild beast, the best thing to do is nothing at all. Stay quiet, stay still, stay alive. Tav had drilled that into your head often enough.  
  
The problem is that Tav was always in more control than you. As the worm fights, you feel his anger at being disturbed. His rage to find you in danger. His pain when the lucky bastard got a good hit on your friend. You tremble with the need to do something with your emotions and having no outlet. Then suddenly the internal pressure is gone. You practically collapse onto the poor lowblood, just barely managing to roll to the side.   
  
You stare up at the stars, panting. Some of them twinkle merrily, but most of them are somberly shining on steadily. You hate the stars. You have always found them too aloof, too mocking. They had shunned your very hatching, after all. Perhaps someday you will reconcile with them. For now, their glitter always leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble over to your friend, who (you assume) is placidly digesting the indigoblood adult. You pat his nose and survey the damage, noting that there is not much left standing of the caves. Looks like you are going to be on the move again.  
  
"Did you seriously have a failsafe where you trained a Goddamn _sandworm_ to destroy your hive and everyone in it?" the assassin finally breaks the silence.  
  
You turn to grin shakily at her, "Syl, meet Bob."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look whos alive. ((hint its me. im alive))
> 
> whelp. that sure was a long stint. work has been kickin my ass in with me bein there over 100 hours a week. which means im only home to sleep and sometimes eat. so updates will be super slow until things let up. perhaps another month or two?? cant say for sure. 
> 
> in other news- gotta love ollys style. just. way to go you ridiculous, half-way insane kid.


	4. Syl

You note the stary-eyed expression on the indigoblood's face and decide not to push matters. Luckily there is still enough of the hive left standing that you think the two of you can at least take cover for the rest of the night and the day. More permanent arrangements could wait until then. You lead him back into the hive, clambering carefully over boulders and skirting around triggered traps. Olly follows docilely, seeming stunned. Once you make it as far back as you dare, you go to digging out supplies from the remains of some nearby barrels. A retching sound causes you to whirl around.   
  
Your friend has one hand splayed against the wall, the other hanging limply by his side as he ejects what food his bilesac still had in it. His head is drooping between his shoulders, and everything about his stance screams 'recent trauma.' After he is finished, he remains in place, simply panting drunkenly. You wonder if you should attempt to reach out to him, but past experience tells you that trolls in shock tend to be extremely dangerous.   
  
"Congratulations, Oxenfree," a voice sneers.   
  
Your dagger is out in a trice as you spin to face the stranger. What stands (or rather floats) next to some boulders gives you pause. It appears to be a ghost. You cannot say that you have actually ever seen one before, but the dead white eyes are somewhat of a giveaway. Her corpse-like pallor is almost as pale, and you swear you can almost see the wall behind her. As you think that, she becomes a little more solid.  
  
"-uck 'ff," mumbles Olly as he drags the back of his hand over his mouth. "No 'ood fer 'ou."  
  
"But you have just received a promotion," insists the ghost girl. "You can now add Wanderer to your titles. It is quite fitting, don't you think? That a Doombringer would be the one to kill another."  
  
"I said FUCK OFF!" screams the indigoblood, all fangs and tensed muscles. If you had been any less trained, you might have jumped at the suddenness of the rage. "You don't get to congratulate me for- for _that_!"   
  
The spirit blinks passively, "Oxenfree. Ancestorcide is quite common. There is no reason to feel residual guilt for slaying someone who is so past their prime. Also, I do believe that he was a genuine threat to you. And I can't have you dying just yet."  
  
"Yet?" you question, your eyebrows shooting up. In response, Olly's shoulders just lift to his ears defensively.  
  
"Oh, I had not really noticed you," the ghost turns to you. "Oxenfree here is a machine of chaos and death, if you haven't figured that out yet. Eventually he will self-destruct in a most glorious fashion. Then he will be one of the ones I can call on. But until then, he works for me just the same."   
  
"I don't like how it sounds like you are planning on killing him," you bluntly state.   
  
"We all die at some point, assassin," points out Olly himself. "And I only work for you, Dia. That's it. So unless you've gotta job, again, fuck off. I'm beyond done with this night."  
  
"Actually, it was not me who wanted to check in with you due to recent events," admits Dia.   
  
"Tav?" blinks the indigoblood. "No, I don't-"  
  
"Olly!" another ghost blinks into existence and swoops towards Olly. "Oh my gods! Are you okay, Olly? I was so worried! He didn't hurt you too bad, did he? I got all of your friends out of the area in time, but you cut that really close."  
  
"TAV!" the indigoblood swats the air, hands passing right through the apparition. "Stop! Yer not my moirail, so stop with the mushy concern! Bugger off!"  
  
The ghost pulls back, "S-sorry! You know how I, uh, tend to, maybe-"  
  
"Go fuckin overboard on everythin?" glares Olly. "Yeah, I know. But again. We are nowhere near pale enough for that shit. We aren't even all that ashen half the time."   
  
"Um, am I interrupting something?" you glance back and forth between these two ghosts and the nomad. You wonder if trolls can even quadrant with the dead and how that would even work.  
  
"Not really," the indigoblood turns so he is facing you, completely ignoring the two spirits. "This is Aradia and Tavros, my weekly fuckin tormentors from the great beyond and my mentors. Just ignore them. That's what I do."  
  
"Mentors?" you frown.   
  
"Yeah," he shrugs. "They're the ones who helped train me, and they point me in the direction of jobs and whatnot."  
  
"You mean we do all the hard work for you," corrects the one called Aradia. She continues, "I found Oxenfree as nothing more than a freshly-pupated, snot-nosed psychic with no control or direction. I gave him purpose."  
  
"You bullied me into a holy crusade against the hemospectrum, actually," recorrects the indigoblood with a grumble. "Fuck you, by the way."  
  
"If my methods of persuasion are unpalatable to you, perhaps you should simply do as I ask more promptly," she returns fire.   
  
"Whoa, whoa!" Tavros inserts himself between the two with hands upraised. "I thought we had, probably, put this argument to rest. Aradia, we talked about this. You promised you would lay off the kid. He's been doing great. Olly, for the hundredth time, don't antagonize Aradia. You know what happens when you make her mad."  
  
Olly mumbles something that sounds like 'most dysfunctional quadrant ever conceived.' You have never seen anything like this. The jumbled up emotions of pupas and teenagers always make quadranting a giant mess, but this is a whole new level of confusion. The three of them seem to all have very different ideas of their relationship to one another, creating a morass of frustration for all involved. There is a sudden urge you do not question.  
  
You pap the indigo's face while he is in the middle of a rebuttal of some kind.   
  
Everyone freezes.  
  
"Uh," is his intelligent response.  
  
You feel your face begin to flush, but you continue on anyway, "Behave yourself. They were concerned about your well-being. The least you can do is try to be polite."  
  
"Uh, did you, maybe, possibly, get, um, you know?" the ghost guy suddenly becomes even more incoherent than normal.   
  
"No," states Aradia calmly.  
  
"No what?" you ask, a feeling of unease growing.  
  
"You are not allowed to quadrant yourself with Apollo," she clarifies. "He belongs to me."  
  
"Oh _the flying fuck_ I do!" the troll in question nearly explodes as he hurls a rock through the ghost. "I'm not a pet or a machine, Dia! I'm not owned by _anyone_ and I never will be! And just to spite you, I won't even come back when I die! Fuck becoming part of your spooky ghost army of assholes!"  
  
"Whoa, Aradia, that was really not okay," confirms Tavros. "He's not a ghost. And even then, um, you can't say that someone belongs to you. That's kind of, probably, against the whole hemoequality thing we are trying for in the first place."  
  
"I believe you are all missing a crucial aspect of this situation," you put in. They all turn to you and you explain further, "This is about Olly's quadrants. He's the only one allowed to make any decisions."  
  
His shoulders are raised again in defense as he stares off to the side, "Come off it, Syl. You don't want me for a moirail. I'm no good. You could find a dozen highblood kids to go passify who _aren't_ Doombringers and are probably half as feral."  
  
"I'm not asking for any of those kids," you cup his chin and turn his head so that he's looking at you. "I am asking the badass, whirlwind wreck of a troll that shoulders way more responsibility than he should. I am asking for _you_ to accept me as your moirail."  
  
If his face becomes any more blue at this point, you think he might burst a vein somewhere, "Y-you do realize that we'll likely both be dead within a sweep, right?"  
  
"All the more reason to quadrant now," you smile softly.   
  
"Fffffuck," he closes his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I've been fallin pale for you and your mother cluckbeast ways, too. You gigantic assmunch."   
  
"Well perhaps if you could take care of yourself, my cluckbeast ways would not be required," you quip.   
  
"Uh, Aradia?" the nervous ghost's voice interrupts your moment. "Maybe we should, you know, leave?"   
  
She seems vaguely annoyed without altering her voice any, "I suppose we should. I look forward to learning more about you, Syl. Perhaps we can find a use for you as well."  
  
"Oh, get outta here before I start screaming," the indigoblood tosses another rock through her, although this time with less force. "You can only hire Syl iffen she says so. And you try _any_ of your nasty tricks of 'persuasion' on her, and I will _never_ work for you again. I'll- I'll go join the Imperial Army as a fuckin _drone_. You hear me?"  
  
The ghost girl blinks again, "You appear quite taken with her. Fine. I understand that she is off limits. Provided, of course, that our arrangement is unaffected."  
  
"Fine, just bugger off already!" he snaps. With that, the two ghosts pop back out of existence. He growls softly, "Motherfuckin asshole of a bitch comin in here and-"  
  
You pap his face again and he shuts up immediately, "I do believe that was uncalled for. Now. Are you going to go take a nap or do I have to sneak some sopor into your food again?"  
  
He almost whines, "I just was in a coma for two nights. Don't think I can sleep anymore even if you did."  
  
You are already collecting what bits of fabric you can find. Old tattered blankets, worn cloaks, spare clothes. All are thrown on top of the pile of rubble. He realizes what you are doing at this point and starts to nervously dig his heels into the sandy floor. After a few moments, though, he disappears behind some boulders. You are worried that perhaps he is attempting a very obvious getaway, but then he returns with his arms full of some newer piles of uncut fabrics.   
  
"They're for one of the hivestems," he mumbles, "the one in the desert wastes, but I figured they wouldn't mind if we... yeah."  
  
You take them from him, "I'm sure they don't even have to know. It's not like we will be contaminating them." You busily arrange all of your supplies into an aesthetically-pleasing and, hopefully, comfortable pile. You turn to find him wringing his hands by what you assume was previously a doorway.   
  
"We don't have to do this now, if you don't want to," you carefully clarify. "If nothing else, perhaps this will be easier to sleep on than the bare floor."  
  
He seems to shake himself, "Yeah, okay. I'm fine. It's just, uh, I've never..." He wanders over to the edge of the pile and vaguely gestures at it. "Nor did I really think I ever would. You know. Doombringer an all that."   
  
"Okay, the first thing we are going to have to talk through is this 'Doombringer' nonsense," you cross your arms. "Then we will move on to other matters like your lack of self-preservation and your hero complex."  
  
You could swear that he just visibly paled, "I'm totally gonna regret this, aren't I?"  
  
"No one ever said that the pale quadrant was the kindest," you cheerfully reply. "Now sit your ass down on the pile before I _make_ you recline on it."  
  
*        *        *        *        *  
  
"She was probably only two, maybe two and a half," his shoulders are hunched up as he continues his disjointed rendition. "Nothin more than a grub, and I... I was too late."  
  
"Surely you realize that is not your fault," you gently remind him. "None of their deaths are your fault. The blame lies upon those who actually murdered them."  
  
The pain in his eyes is heartwrenching when he turns to you, "You don't understand, Syl! I could have done something- could have saved her! But I wasn't there, so she died. It mightn't be my fault she got attacked, but it _is_ my fault she's dead. I-I tried so hard. The bandaging was bad. She just wouldn't stop _bleeding_ and... she died in my arms, Syl. You don't just get over that, even without biannual reminders from Dia."  
  
"The girl is a ghost now?" it becomes clear to you. "What does she say about it?"  
  
He sniffles hard, "Sh-she.... Fucking lil grub is one of the only ones- the dead ones- that don't.... she doesn't blame me. The rest- they all do. But she... she _thanks_ me. For failing. For her dying. I just- I can't- I've had ones who _lived_ less thankful than her."  
  
"I'm glad of it, as they should all appreciate you," you wipe a tear from his cheek (and try not to feel too upset when he pulls back a bit). "The important part is not whether you succeed or fail. The important part is that you attempted to help. You do realize that no other troll would even try, don't you? They would simply continue on their way as if they had not seen anything at all, at best. Most would probably at least raid the hive for supplies or take it as their own. A few are even the trolls who actually cause these problems in the first place."  
  
He turns from you to stare up at the ceiling. You wait patiently, knowing that when the words come to him, he will continue. Instead, you spend this moment to check that his breathing is evening out again and the slight muscle tremors are decreasing. With such a high bloodcaste, you would honestly be more surprised if he had _not_ broken into a rage at some point.   
  
"It ain't fair, Syl," he finally states.   
  
"Life rarely is," you quip without thinking.  
  
"No," he frowns at the cracked rocks above. "It ain't fair that somebody a long time ago decided who was worth what based on somethin as asinine as their blood color. It ain't fair that some fuckin blueblood or even a Greenie can come along and snuff out a lil grub cause their blood is a tad more 'common' or 'rusty' or the billion other things they call 'em. She was innocent, Syl! They almost always are- the little ones. It ain't fair and I ain't gonna sit by an let it happen, Dia or no Dia.  
  
"I've put together enough safe places to see it," he sits up suddenly, his eyes full of light and fire. "There's a better way to get by. Maybe not for me- or even you- but there is a better way! I barely helped organize their structure but- Suffering Signless! The sunken hives in the marshes have goddamn Saltlickers livin right next to Rusts. Syl, they have figured out how to coexist peacefully- all on their own! Isn't _that_ proof enough that all trolls are equal?"  
  
"You are talking about your communist hivestems of pupas and teenagers?" you ask for clarification.  
  
Suddenly he seems sheepish again, "Ain't _my_ communities. Those kids run their hivestems as they see fit. And there're some adults in some of them too. Of course, only ones that I approve of beforehand. A few ancient lowbloods. A seadweller deserter. And, of course, a few of the Scratch, but they don't care for my methods much. Old bastards would rather stay in their hidey-holes and wait for things to magically get better. Morons."  
  
"Wait... are you telling me that you are mixed up with the Scratch? Those crazy hemoradicals that hide out in caves and preach about the Holy Signless?"   
  
"Those are the ones. Why? You know 'em?"  
  
"As a a matter of fact," you pull out your iron bars necklace to show him, "I do."  
  
*        *        *        *        *  
  
"Pick up the pace, Assassin," he barks at you.  
  
"This is as fast as I can go carrying all this," you snap back. With an annoyed grunt, he stops and waits a moment for you to catch up. As soon as you do, he is pulling one of the packs from your shoulders and throwing it over his own.   
  
"I forget you ain't a blue; that should help. We gotta get movin or we'll be out in the open durin the day," he pushes onward as he explains. "I don't much mind layin out in the sun, but I have a feelin you won't find it so nice, Owlkin. Especially out in the open desert."  
  
"You've done that before, haven't you?" you find yourself too exhausted to be dismayed.  
  
"Course I have," pants the indigoblood as he walks up a nearly vertical dune that you are forced to climb, using your hands for purchase. "Not everywhere in the desert is a convenient one-night walk away from everythin else. Actually, you haven't even seen most of it yet. Just some of the outskirts. It goes deep. Takes over a perigree to cross in some places. And if you don't know your way, you are fucked.   
  
"The moons swim when they are near the horizon, and the mirages don't help. Gettin lost is easy out in the open desert. That's when it gets dangerous. Blindin sun. No shade. No water neither- unless you know where to look. Only takes a troll two weeks to dry out- less if they're a seadweller. It's a slow death, Syl. And painful from the looks of it."  
  
"You totally killed someone out here," you mutter.  
  
"Nah, the desert did the killin. I just took them on a merry honkbeast-chase through the dunes. If they had turned back I woulda let them go- wasn't anythin personal. They just routed me from my hive. Happens a lot. Trolls don't like a Doombringer hangin around nearby. Brings bad luck."  
  
"I don't understand how you can be so blase about the deaths of multiple trolls when you have a breakdown if some random pupa passes away," you huff. "A life is a life, Olly."  
  
"I make the distinction between those who need my help and those who don't," he shrugs as he reaches the top of the dune. "Anythin smaller or weaker than me deserves protection. Anythin that attacks somethin smaller and weaker than them deserves annihilation. Maybe at one point I coulda helped them and they woulda been decent trolls, but I've discovered you can rarely change an adult's mind. No matter how hard you try."  
  
You refuse to let the matter drop, "They likely respond to different tactics than pupas, and do not view you as a valid person to question their way of life. After all, adults are more invested than children. They are employed by the Empire, which would make them deserters if they left instead of simply missing pupas. No one looks for the latter, but the former raise too many problems to be left alone."  
  
He sighs, "Look, I just. It's easier to think of it that way, okay? Dia has had me at this for sweeps now. Iffen I wasn't... Iffen I wasn't ready to kill as soon as look at a drone, they woulda gotten me first. I used to think maybe I didn't have to kill them. I used to hesitate when I could tell ones were unhappy. The unhappy ones sometimes fight the hardest; I've got scars to remember them by."  
  
"Next time we have a run-in with some drones, _I_ am going to be the one to decide how we deal with them," you state. "And I do mean we. Until I think I can trust you to not send yourself on a suicide mission, I'm coming with you on your jobs. Also you have shown a nasty penchant for mental instability."  
  
He grins over his shoulder at you, "Ya don't say? Here I thought it was one of my endearing qualities."  
  
"It's not a joke!" you snarl.   
  
The smile slowly fades as he blinks at you a few times. Then he is turning back around, "Yeah... yeah, I know. But death and Doombringers walk hand-in-hand, Assassin. It's been my coonmate longer than you can even imagine. I'm not afraid of it; in a way I've almost looked forward to it. I think things like 'When I'm dead, all the bad things that happen will no longer be my fault.' or 'If I don't come back as a ghost I can finally get some peace and quiet.' We all die someday. Just it's my business to make that day sooner for some trolls, that's all.  
  
"I don't think I've ever told you what a Doombringer actually is. Do you know?"  
  
"A troll hatched out during the day," you blithely answer. "Some morons believe that they are bad luck incarnate: walking worshipers of Death himself and the Handmaiden. Nothing more than silly superstition."  
  
"Well, mostly hyperbole, but not blatant lies," he continues. "Doombringers are fate makers- or rather- I suppose it would be more accurate to call us fate destroyers. When we are hatched out during the day, no lusus will claim us. We are orphans left out in the blistering sun to die. Our signs mark us as things to be left alone lest bad luck strike down the interlopers. For if we survive, we do belong to the Handmaiden. Every single one of us.   
  
"And we reap souls for her," he continues, "so that she may stay away from our lands, placated. That's why we are all mercs, see? Kill off trolls and get a spot of coin to feed ourselves at the same time. Doombringers are somewhat of a double-edged sword. On one hand, trolls want us gone for the trouble we cause. On the other, they dare not outright kill us all or Death might be angered and send the Handmaiden. We are simultaneously hated and untouchable. One day, though, she comes to collect what is hers... So they say, anyway."   
  
"But, your lusus? You are no orphan."  
  
"A dead bronzeblood's charge that Tav brought in to care for me. With our abilities, it wasn't hard to convince him to take care of a little blue orphan," he shrugs. "He didn't choose me. No one did. So I made friends. Lots of friends. And they helped raise me. Dia keeps tellin me that I need to give him up soon."  
  
You pause for a long moment before muttering, "I think this Dia character has been a bad influence on you."  
  
He laughs so hard that you manage to catch up with him, doubled over and tears in his eyes. Although that is where the conversation is left, you hardly feel good about it. There are so many layers of fear and hate and distrust wrapped around your moirail (oh Gods of the outer ring you actually have a moirail) that you cannot help but worry. He seems to think that his fate is inevitable, to end in misery and superstition. You want to simultaneously shake and pap him.   
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"Ironhide?" one eyebrow raises, always the one with the scar over it. "As in General Ironhide of Fort Ironhide, the most impenetrable place on land? As in the troll who once took a fucking artillery shell to the chest and still got right back up to bite off the head of the poor bastard leading the charge? That Ironhide?"  
  
You huff and roll your eyes, "Yes, that Ironhide. The contract was quite clear."  
  
"Shit, and here I thought I was the one with suicidal tendencies," he leans back in the chair and crosses his arms. "No."  
  
"I already took the job," you explain. "It will be quick and easy, you'll see. I just have to-"  
  
"I don't think you heard me, properly," his voice goes low and even like it does when he is about to get _really_ angry. "I said no."  
  
"And I said yes?" you quip back, still not one to take his shit after a few perigrees of living together. "Once I take a job, I finish it, Olly. I can't have my reputation go down the drain just because you doubt my abilities. Just sit tight and I will be right back in a few nights."  
  
"I refuse," growls the blueblood. "No fuckin way are you goin on a mission just to die. You take your pristine reputation an shove it right up your arse. Even better, you shove it up the ass of the idiot who gave you this fuckin job. I. I. I'm losin my grasp on words I'm so pissed."  
  
You sigh and finally close your pack to face him fully, "Look, there is no way I am turning down this contract. I know you sneer at the idea of money and how you don't need it to get by, but it's not just you and me that we have to worry about. The kids at the communes need things, and those things cost, wouldn't you know, money! So this very lucrative job to take out a piece of scum like Ironhide is not something I was just going to let pass me by."  
  
"What happened to a life is a life?" he throws your own words back at you. "How can you claim to value all life equally if you are an assassin who goes to kill trolls in sneaky and ignoble ways?"  
  
"I do value all life, but this troll has killed enough people to make you and I look like veritable Saints. It's for the greater good."   
  
"Nice way to pick and choose which of your own standards to live by," he sneers. Then he stops, slamming the heel of one palm into his forehead, "Fuck! No, that's not! Ugh! I'm just- I can't let you do this. You're gonna get yourself killed and then I'm gonna hafta go on a rampage and die, and it will be the classic tragic moirail lovestory that's so overused and cliche. If we've gotta die young, can't we at least be creative about it?"  
  
"You are such a big baby. We talked about this, no one is dying and-"  
  
"You can't promise that!" interrupts Olly. "You can't. There's no way. You can't know how things will turn out. It's not enough to just say things like 'that will never happen to us' with no proof to back you up. I just. I can't take lying. Even if you don't think you are, you can't lie to me. Not like everyone else."  
  
You are taken aback, "I have every intention of speaking nothing but the truth when I am with you. And while it is true that I cannot say for certain that I will not die on this mission or even tonight as soon as I walk outside the door, I will fight fang and claw to make sure that I come back to you. Don't you at least trust that?"  
  
He takes a deep breath, still obviously unhappy. "Yes, but it's not enough. Take me with you."  
  
"W-what?"  
  
"If you get into a jam in the fort, you're gonna need someone who can get you out. Fuckin shit, you're gonna need the cavalry! I can do that. I can bust in with my friends and be the motherfuckin cavalry. Let me come with you."   
  
"You're... asking my permission?" you realize that this is a big deal for him, raised where he could do pretty much as he pleased whenever he wanted. Then you start analyzing just how useful he and his ability would be on this particular contract. While flashy is definitely not your usual mode of operation, having backup when attempting to escape this location would be a great boon. He is still rambling about different ways he could aid you, but you have already come to a decision.   
  
You interrupt him in the middle of his jumbled argument with a simple, "Alright, but if you come you are coming as my hired hand. You have to do what I say when I say it, understood?"   
  
"As you wish," he answers sincerely.  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"You stay here," you reiterate yet again. "I mean it, Olly! No rushing in just because you are tired of waiting or trying to sneak around to scope out a good lookout spot. You. Stay. Right. Here."  
  
"I got it, I got it," he rolls his eyes. "My pants will stay firmly rooted to this rock until I get the signal."   
  
You nod, "That's right. And no sending any of your 'friends' out to scout or anything else ridiculous you might try to use as a loophole. They stay with you, got it?"  
  
"Don't worry," he grins up at you crookedly. "We ain't goin nowhere."  
  
"...that was a double negative."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"Nevermind. Just sit tight and wait for the signal."  
  
As you tear your gaze from him and turn around, your eyes fall upon the structure in the distance. With the sky lightening as the sun approaches, the imposing towers and walls of Fort Ironside in the plains below become dark shadows. Shadows that you hope to reach by mid-day so you can complete your task in secrecy. Descending the cliffside, you can feel the weight of his gaze upon you. You know he is unhappy about being left behind to essentially wait for your return, but you could not risk him coming with you and bumbling your perfect approach. After all, a preteen blueblood and his veritable menagerie of 'friends' is hardly discreet. In fact, you are fairly certain that Apollo does not even know the meaning of the word discreet.   
  
You, on the other hand, are just a small greenblood preteen whose eyes are still gray. You dress in more modest and anonymous clothing than your moirail, which helps to keep your true identity a secret. In fact, even when you do wear your sigil it is often in the neutral tones of those who wish not to be bloodtyped. The point is that even if you were on a busy street instead of darting through the plains, you are easily overlooked. Which, for your occupation, is highly desirable. The more invisible you are, the easier it is to reach your marks and make a clean getaway.   
  
By the time you reach the fortress, the sun is high in the sky. The walls are made of roughened stones- easy to scale and clamber over. Once up on a better vantage point, you sit and watch the brightly lit courtyards for awhile. There are a few guards dotted here and there, but for the most part it is eerily silent. Figuring out where General Ironhide is located is as easy as picking out the building with the largest set of doors. After all, the hulking indigoblood from the tales you have heard would not submit himself to having to stoop to get in and out of his quarters every night. You dart across rooftops silently until you get to the one you need, slipping inside an open window.  
  
From the rafters you can see just about everything. The entry hall is wide and grand, but starkly empty. You have to press forward and to the back of the building towards the restingblocks to find anyone at all. The first few blocks are filled with various lower officers and their entourage of lackeys; all of them sleep blissfully through your intrusion. Although the drones and their ilk are distasteful, you leave them be and continue searching. You were only getting paid to kill one of these assholes, after all. The fact that you were hired by another officer who simply wanted to take over as the new general is irony not lost on you.  
  
In the very last room at the end of the hall you finally find him. At least, you are hoping that the only troll giant enough to require that large of a recuperacoon is General Ironhide. Otherwise you were going to need a lot more supplies. He is slumped over a table with a bottle of something foul-smelling still in his grasp. The target is gargantuan and heavily armored, which means taking him down with your long daggers is next to impossible. However, highbloods tend to have a slower metabolism. This, paired with his huge size, pretty much ruled out any poisons you could use to finish the job.   
  
Weaponry it is then.   
  
You wish now that you had brought along your moirail and his stupid muscles so that he could help you with this task. At least his axes would be able to cleave through the thick plate armor and give you something to bury your blades into. As it is, you will require some quick thinking to get this job done. From within your satchel you carefully dig out some razor wire covered in rags along with a bottle of stuff that you had yet to try. The vendor you had obtained it from said that the magical liquid would eat through everything but glass. You intend to test it out, in a very careful and controlled manner.  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
Shit! Shitshitshitshitshitohfuckingshitballsshit!  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
The only thing you can think about as you dodge another incoming pike is that Olly was going to be very upset with you for breaking your promise. You really did not think things through as thoroughly as you should have, and now you are going to pay the price for it. Then again, who knew how perversely slowly acid would be in eating through armor? Or that it would continue past the armor and start devouring the highblood's body in the same monotonous pace? When he finally stopped moving in a spewing stream of dark indigo color (that made you really panicky for some reason), his screams had alerted every single living creature within the fort.  
  
This, unfortunately, made it extremely difficult to sneak off into the day quietly. Instead, you had rushed by the first few guards when they finally broke down the barred door and sprinted back down the ominous hallway. You dodged and parried all the blows you could, knowing that your only chance was to get out into the open. The grand hall had a few too many bodies for you to get by quickly, and now you are trapped in a routine of fighting and fleeing that has left you no closer to the exit than before. You are frightened. You are tired. Soon enough, one of them finally gets in a lucky shot.  
  
The moment of shock is all you need to once again make a break for the door. The rabble rouses themselves rather quickly to once again press you, accusations echoing off the stones. Your mind is a fog as you scramble outside, looking for the fastest way out of the fort. You know you had originally plotted escape routes (several in fact!) before you had gone into the building. But all those details are lost under a sheen of panic and pain. You have to leave. You have to escape. Right now. After all, there is someone very important waiting on you.  
  
Something buries itself into your shoulder. You stumble and your eyes squeeze shut from the impact. When your outstretched hands hit the cobblestone and your daggers clink, bouncing off to the side, your eyes open again. You have to leave. You do not have time for this. If they have seen your injuries then they are readying to finish the job this very instant. The exhaustion and your injuries make it difficult to flee; your head is spinning. Confused and alone, you scream.  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
When you awake again, you are no longer alone.   
  
Your first instinct is to attack the troll who has captured you, but something gives you pause. Instead of feeling trapped in these arms, you feel... safe. They cradle you close to the troll's chest, but do not restrict or harm you. As your eyes begin to clear the blurriness from your vision, your captor also notes that you are awake.  
  
"'Bout time, Syl," a very welcome voice says. "I was startin' to worry that you wouldn't wake up tonight."  
  
"O-Olly?" you are still confused. "But, how?"  
  
"Sorry we didn't exactly wait for the signal," he apologizes without meaning a word, "but you were in a bit of a pinch so Dia gave me the go-ahead. Mostly cause I said if you died I would be following you soon after. Apparently I'm still a bit more useful alive."  
  
"Dia? Oh, Aradia," you start piecing it together. You suddenly feel cold inside. "So you and the calvary came in to my rescue then. You even bandaged me up. How quaint."   
  
From this position, you are entirely all too close to the eyebrow that raises, "I suppose."  
  
You wait for him to continue, but he does not say anything else. He simply turns his gaze back to the plains before the two of you and continues walking. For a moment, you are dumbfounded. Is there any way that he could have missed it? You know your moirail is not in the possession of the quickest of thinkpans, but there is no way he is that dense. Then you wonder if perhaps he just does not care. That would be just like the idiot indigoblood, putting aside the quirks and faults of others because he considered his to be so much more significant. You are one more Doombringer mention away from punching his nose in, after all.   
  
"Olly, why couldn't you just listen to me?" you focus your anger on something that actually is his fault.   
  
"Hmm?" he looks down at you again.  
  
"You said you wouldn't go anywhere!"  
  
"Naw, I said 'We ain't goin nowhere.' which is a double negative," he patiently explains. "You even said so yourself."  
  
You throw your good arm into the air in your frustration, "I thought you didn't know what that even meant! Urgh! You make me so! So! So! RAAARGH!"  
  
"Love you, too," your blighted (beloved) moirail grins.   
  
Having blown off most of your anger, you sigh in defeat. You should have known better. As much progress as the blueblood has made lately on becoming less of an incoherent feral, he is still an impatient highblood listening to ghosts for advice. You hate to admit it, but you know that you will eventually forgive him anyway so you might as well get started on it now. However, there is still one thing that is bothering you.  
  
"Olly... what happened to your pants?"  
  
"I left 'em on the rock, just like I promised."  
  
You punch him right in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what syl is thinking when she punches olly according to my moirail- OLLY!!!! DO NOT LEAVE YOUR PANTS BEHIND ON A ROCK BECAUSE YOU'RE A SMARTASS!!!! DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH FABRIC WE'LL NEED TO MAKE YOU NEW ONES?!?!? ARRGHHHHH~!
> 
> on another note holy shit i missed writing. i really need to push for more free time so i can do it more often


	5. Olly

It has been a perigree since you have seen your moirail and you are starting to go mad.  
  
Correction- It has been a perigree since you have seen your moirail and you are starting to go feral. You have always been a bit mad. After all, your hivemates have been two ghosts, the occasional lusus, and an assortment of wild beasts. Trolls hate and fear you, disgust plain to see on their features whenever you are near. If anything, it is a wonder that you have not gone completely off the deep end before this point. But it is happening now. You are going mad. Going feral. Sadly you realize it is happening even though there is little you can actually do about it. At this point it would almost be a relief to be removed from your actions.  
  
"Olly?" a familiar voice is trying to break through your circling thoughts. "H-hey there, Olly. Why don't we, maybe, do something _besides_ pace in a circle and mutter? What about some slam poetry? You always are up for, uh, laying down some sick beats!"  
  
You turn a baleful eye upon him, "I'm waiting." Then your gaze returns to the empty horizon.   
  
"Give it up, Oxenfree," a second voice sounds vaguely annoyed. "It is clear to everyone else present that your new quadrantmate is obviously not returning."  
  
"She's coming back. She said to wait here. I'm waiting."  
  
"Aradia, I'm really starting to get, um, concerned," Tavros stage-whispers as if you are going deaf instead of insane. "He's never been quite this bad. The mood swings are one thing, but now..."  
  
"I noticed he is becoming increasingly repetitive," she replies. "Perhaps you can distract him while I go investigate what is taking Talvar so long on her latest mission. Keep him away from any beasts. Or I suppose the more correct version would be for you to keep any beasts away from him. I would not like to imagine what his current state may do to his abilities."  
  
Someone nervously gulps as you continue to pace the length of the rocky outcropping. You could not bring yourself to care if your dead mentor had left or not. All that mattered right now is that you are waiting. She would be back. She promised. All you had to do is stay right here. It does not make a difference how long you have already been waiting. She said she would be back. She begged you to actually stay and wait this time. You could not disobey her.   
  
The plains remain stubbornly empty. It is okay. You are not okay, but in the grand scheme of things that is not too bad. She did not tell you how long to wait- something about unknown time schedules and undercover work. It is okay because you know that she said she would be back. She promised. You trust her more than anything. If there is a single sentient thing in the universe that would never break a promise to you, it would be your moirail. By the outer gods, she did not deserve a half-feral wreck like you, but as long as she wanted you...   
  
"I'm still waiting, Syl," you murmur to the scenery.  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
Time passes. You pace and you mutter and you wait. Tavros attempts to talk you into eating or sleeping. The foolish lowblood even attempts to talk you into leaving your lookout point for a sturdier shelter. He gives up after the third night into the thunderstorm and disappears for awhile. Mostly you ignore him. Occasionally you glare in his general direction. Still you pace and you mutter and you wait. A living troll cautiously approaches once, but upon seeing your expression he quickly leaves again. You are okay with that, as he is not the one you are waiting on to arrive.   
  
Your bones are weary. Your eyes are incapable of focusing on things for very long, even as you continue to stare hopefully (hopelessly) into the distance. Parts of your skin are blackened and blistered by the sun. Your boots literally have been torn from your feet in shreds and pieces by the rocks. You think you might be bleeding. You cannot imagine how that is important. The only thing that matters is that you are still waiting.   
  
Your pacing is almost the shambling of a reanimated corpse at this point. At times you stumble as your rebellious blueblood muscles start to give out on you. There are wounds on your hands from when you have fallen. Once or twice you think you might have actually fainted. When you come to your senses you simply pick yourself back up (ignoring the whines of the spirit) and painfully start shuffling again.   
  
Slowly you forget why you are out in the middle of the plains on a Godforsaken rock into which you are wearing grooves. You do know that it is important, somehow. Besides that, your thinkpan is infuriatingly blank. All that comes from your mind is a mantra of "I'm waiting. She promised. I'm waiting. She promised. I'm waiting."  
  
The first thing you notice is another mind coming into range. A tingle in the back of your head and the emotion of motherly worry fills you. Your pace stutters to a halt as your neck creaks upwards to the brightening skies. A large white bird is coming down upon you with claws outstretched. Nothing registers as important, despite the foreign emotions. Your feet begin moving again on their own.  
  
Someone is trying to talk to you. Her voice is oddly musical and familiar, but you cannot seem to make out the words. You pace and you mutter and you wait. More voices join in and they sound familiar as well. Still waiting, you pace and you mutter. Warm arms (too warm) gently wrap around you and you let them. She stops you in your tracks and very carefully takes your head into her hands.   
  
You see those lovely framing horns and sigh in relief. With a cracked and much abused voice, you greet her, "Syl. I was. Waiting. For you."  
  
There are tears in her eyes, "I know, Olly. I know. I'm back now, just like I promised. You don't have to wait anymore."  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"-has been done," some inconsiderate asshole is being loud. "I do not care what you are to him, if he is damaged beyond repair you will have ruined sweeps and sweeps of careful conditioning and planning. Upon this broken pupa lies the fate of the entire race. We did not go through all of this effort to come out empty handed."  
  
"I will not leave him to you, who so obviously does not have his best interests in mind!" comes the hissed reply. "I can see now that I never should have left him for so long, but I'll be damned before I abandon my moirail to a pair of ghosts who cannot even seem to keep him functioning for a few weeks!"   
  
"We had him functioning for sweeps before you stepped into the picture," the first voice coldly announces. "And here I thought that moirails were supposed to be good influences on each other. Instead, you have made him even more volatile and bent of self-destruction than before. Congratulations on a-"  
  
She cuts off as you pull your sorry carcass to a sitting position and tell her every so kindly, "Shut. The fuck. Up."  
  
"Olly!" Tavros and Sylara exclaim at the same time. Your head swims as your moirail pulls you into a hug.   
  
"I'm so sorry, Olly," she breathes out all at once. "I'm so sorry that I left you for so long."  
  
"Considering that is the first time you have said anything besides 'I'm waiting' for at least the past two weeks, I will allow your blatant insubordination to slide for once," Aradia informs you from across the room.  
  
"What she means is, uh, that we are totally thrilled that you seem to be not feral anymore," quickly explains Tavros. "Or mostly feral. Seriously, for a little while there we were really starting to get worried. I didn't want to have to find some random troll to come cull you out of mercy."  
  
You ignore them to instead place an arm over your moirail's shoulders, "You. Promised."  
  
"I know, Olly, and I upheld that promise," she says. "I told you that I would meet you back at the rock when I had finished my next job. I explained that I didn't know when I would be done, but that I would be back as soon as I could. And you promised me that you would not follow, remember? I told you that you just had to wait and I would return. But all this time... What on Alternia were you doing?"  
  
"I. Was. Waiting," you close your eyes and lean on her.   
  
"Dear Sufferer I cannot believe you nearly killed yourself over semantics!" cries out Sylara. The back of your shirt is getting suspiciously wet. "Remind me to hold this over your head later when you are better. Seriously, Olly! You did not have to wait on the fucking rock that was the rendezvous point! You could have gone and done jobs or cleaned the hive or fought drones or frolicked in the goddamn desert if that is what you wanted!"  
  
"Oh," you say, already feeling the heaviness of sleep beginning to reclaim you.   
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"And you are quite sure you will be alright by yourself?"   
  
"I'm fine," you roll your eyes.  
  
"Are you sure? Because you could come with me if you need to feel secure," she presses.  
  
You gesture grandly to your bandaged legs that you have been told (by her no less) to stay off of for at least a few more nights. Even though the swelling had reduced once you started keeping them up on a stool, the pain and stiffness were very much still present.   
  
"Ah, right," her mouth does this funny thing like she is trying not to laugh. "Remind me again how that happened?"  
  
"Because I'm dumb and I don't listen to my moirail," you huff.  
  
"That's right," she nods agreeably. Then she sobers, "I am serious, you know. We need supplies sooner rather than later, but if you will be distressed we can figure something else out. Either we can scrounge up enough to survive nearby or you can come with me... somehow. I could find a cart! We could even get one of your blighted friends to pull it for-"  
  
"Syl," you gently interrupt her. "I'm fine. I know I haven't done a stellar job in the past, but I can last one whole night without you hovering like a mother cluckbeast. And hey, at least I took out the bastards who got my legs before they could come back and finish the job yeah?"  
  
"If you listened to me, your legs would never have gotten injured in the first place," retorts your moirail. "I will be back by midmorning at the latest. Try not to get into too much trouble?"  
  
You glance around, trying to figure out what exactly you could get into trouble with nearby, "Uh..."  
  
"I'm leaving before I change my mind," she sighs. "Remember, only get up if it is absolutely necessary."   
  
You wave her off. When she finally is out of the hive, you settle back in your chair with a huff. As time has gone by, Sylara had requested more and more furnishings. First it was a recuperacoon. And yeah, okay, you could get that because roughing it out with the nightmares every single day had to be tough for someone not used to it. Certainly you were not going to complain about the few times you were able to get a decent sleep in the sopor. Then it was a chair here, a stool there, a pot and pan to cook things, and... honestly you are a bit overwhelmed with thoughts of how to move all this stuff when inevitably it is time to find a new hive.   
  
Being a nomad usually meant that you had a few little hives built into the natural surroundings that you would rotate through as the sweep progressed. This also meant that you are very used to traveling light and thus having very few material possessions that you could not easily carry. While you had been able to lug all these items out into the desert one at a time as Syl acquired them, that did not mean your indigoblood strength would enable you to drag a whole livingblock worth of furniture up and down dunes.   
  
After an hour goes by, a voice singsongs, "Olly Olly Oxenfree~"   
  
You groan and call out, "Whoever the fuck taught you that, I'm gonna rip them in half."  
  
"Yo, sorry Olly," a familiar face pops into the hive entrance. "It's catchy and gets your attention though."  
  
"Hey, Jardel," you relax. "Long time no see. You can come in if you want."  
  
"Ah, no thanks," waffles the lowblood. "I've, uh, seen some of the shit you like to set up in your hives. I just thought I'd let you know that there are drones in town. I think they are just passing through, but a bunch of the riffraff and I have cleared out until they leave."   
  
You blood freezes in your veins, "Drones?"  
  
"Yeah, and some really scary ones at that," he nods. "Quite a few of them are in armor painted bright red, like straight up crimson. You have any idea what that's about?"  
  
"Fucking Empress Elites," you hiss. "Those aren't drones, Del! They are Imperial Guards! Oh. Oh, no. Syl!"   
  
"Syl?" he questions, but you are already up and hobbling to grab a cloak and your axes. In frantic movements, you ready yourself for the walk to town and a fight. Even knowing that you should not be up, you are easily able to push past the pain when something so dire arose. So much for being fine.   
  
"Olly, if you're going in town at least take some of your beasts with you," Jardel wrings his hands as he moves out of your way.  
  
"Oh, don't worry," you grin grimly. "I'm not planning on goin alone."    
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
You have never seen so many drones in your entire fucking existence. Quite frankly, you are in over your head. At first it was just like every other mission involving drones. You jumped into the fray with the element of surprise and soon enough you were wading through bodies. However, the difference between the usual fare and tonight is that normally you are only dealing with a small squad or even just a couple drones. Never before have you attempted to take out an entire regiment in control of a town.   
  
Even your friends are having a hard time keeping up with the sheer number of enemies. As soon as the drones had become aware of your interference, they had called for backup. Pandemonium quickly ensued. Beasts are now running rampant in the streets, fighting drones fueled by your emotional distress and their own survival instincts. Trolls are running every which way to get out of the crossfire or desperately trying to fight off the invaders to avoid being culled. Sylara was right- you really are not capable of anything resembling stealth.   
  
The trouble really starts when you start seeing the red motherfuckers. Painted a crimson color stolen from the Sufferer himself, their spiked armor draws attention to their huge size. Beginning to have second thoughts, you allow the beasts to take on these foes while you frantically search for your moirail among the throngs of everyday trolls. She had to be here somewhere.   
  
You spot her about the same time as a couple of those giant bastards. Swearing fit to make a cavalreaper blush, you hustle to close the distance before things can get any worse. Which of course, by default, means that everything has to very quickly go to shit. A trident- oh gods that is not a trident, it is an actual culling fork!- is thrown at your moirail by one of the Imperial Guards. At the same exact time, the other two spot your lanky self hauling ass and turn to intercept you. One has a maul for a weapon, and the other a literal scythe. Mother. Fucking. Perfect. Just grand. Downright _peachy_.  
  
You have to be up close and personal for your little hand-axes to get any action, but the guards apparently all have mid-range weaponry designed to stop you in your tracks before you can get up in their grill. Well, someone better fillet you and pat your ass down with butter because you are going to be best fucking chums with their grills. After all, you like breathing. Even more so than breathing, you love your moirail. And you will be damned if you let them so much as scratch her.   
  
The culling fork narrowly misses Sylara, and she is already dancing out of the way as the Empress's Elite strides forward. Similarly, the two other guards are advancing on you, scythe raised up high and the maul held down low. Aw, look! They even know how to cover each others weak points. How utterly delightful. You are so fucked. Outclassed and outnumbered.   
  
Same as every other night, to be honest.   
  
Fuck it. Find your center. You grip your weapons tighter, then let your hands loosen a bit. Bringing your left foot forward, you hunker down an inch. Then you tilt your head just the tiniest bit forward and- there! Easily defensible, but also not joint-locked. You can either block or move back, depending on how hard they want to swing at you. They swing hard. Really hard.  
  
The maul comes in first. You place both axes between it and you and lock all your joints, letting it simply push you out of the way of the incoming curved blade. Even transferring most of the attack into movement, your arms still ache from parrying the blow. Stupid adults being disproportionately stronger than pupas and teenagers. You kick off from the road and lead them a bit farther back. Each step towards you is another step away from your moirail. Push comes to shove, you will run and let them at the literal target on your back if it keeps them off of her. Still, retreating too early will likely cause disinterest. You have to make them _want_ to take you out.  
  
You know how to play that game. With the beginnings of a wicked grin, you dart forward. As you expected, the scythe comes down and the maul swings horizontally. You sidestep the blade and leap over the glorified hammer. This puts you right up in the face of the slightly shorter guard of the duo- or rather her helm. Introducing your own small blade into a chink where the pauldron meets the chestplate, you hiss pure defiance up at her. Might as well add insult to injury.   
  
The roar that emanates from within the metal helm is downright terrifying. Your thinkpan skitters and your body hurls itself out of immediate striking range just as the scythe comes down. Although you itch to see how Syl is faring in her fight, they do not give you any quarter. The heavy maul thumps into the road where you had stood nanoseconds before, leaving a crater in its wake. At the same time, the curved blade user is coming at you from the right, forcing you to actually block again since there is no time to move.   
  
These are not drones. They fight too well, coordinated and calculative. Imperial Guard really are a whole different level. As they attempt to get you stuck in between the two of them, you dance in and out of range with the sole intent to piss them off. That does not stop you from taking any potshots you spot, though. You get a lucky slash into the back of the scythe-wielder's knee (which is strangely a weak point in their armor, you should try and remember that). A spray of fucking _violet_ and you get clobbered by the maul.   
  
The blow literally knocks you heels over horns in a confusing kaleidoscope of starry sky and coarse dirt. You hit something solid and come to a stop, head spinning. Knowing you have no time, you lurch to your feet and stagger a few steps to the side. You feel more than see or hear something large smash into the wall where you had been. Shit. Fuck. Even your horns are ringing from the impact. Impacts. Multiple.   
  
Dazed, you pull your weapons up and try to blink the colorful globules out of your vision. No time to catch your breath. Numb still to the pain, you use your shock to your advantage and push yourself harder. She is a bit taller than you, but not by much. You sweep your axes out, one at chest level and the other in line with your neck; feeling nothing but air you put in some footwork and start advancing. Forward-pointing horns means that your cone of awareness is in your front, and as long as you keep moving towards the enemy you technically do not need superfluous things like sight.  
  
The maul rings and stings your awareness as it comes slamming down towards you. With a kick of your feet, you lunge forward instead of away from the relative safety of the wall. This means you are outside her strike radius again; she will have to push you away to bring the heavy head of the maul back into play. You do not intend to give her such an opportunity. Without a struggle, you fall down the hopbeast hole that is your thinkpan.  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
You are _wrecked_.   
  
Stumbling over your own feet, you force yourself away from the enemy. Well, what remained of the enemy. Which is not much, to be honest. From where he lays on the ground, the second Imperial Guard glares daggers at you. The thrumming in your ears, in your horns, in your thinkpan- it dully pounds (you swear it is saying _kill kill kill_ ) as you drag your boots in the dust. Time to wrap up business.  
  
"-you dare!" someone grabs the base of your left horn and your arm, causing you to almost whirl on her. Unimpressed, Sylara continues, "Olly, he's unarmed and beaten. Leave him be."  
  
Slowly your madness begins to recede, "But... he's..."  
  
" _Unarmed_ ," she stresses again. "He's not a threat. Let's just go."  
  
"He's a _drone_ ," you snarl, unable to help the knee-jerk reaction. "Worse, even!"  
  
Suddenly her hands are gone, "Really? Olly, _really_? You want to kill him in cold blood, then you'd better find your own way back to the hive."  
  
You blink, "What."  
  
She steps away, turns away, "You heard me. I'm not going to fight you over this stupidity anymore. Either you will learn mercy when it is deserved or I will not rein you in on the field anymore."  
  
"Mercy?" the word even tastes strange on your tongue. You are not sure you have ever heard that term, except when paired with culling. However, your moirail is making it abundantly clear that death is not the resolution she is wanting. Where you stand above the drone, your axes burn in your too-tight grasp. Lifting them for a strike, something in you makes you pause. You wait, half expecting one of your mentors to pop up out of thin air and berate you for your hesitation.   
  
Nothing happens. You growl, uncertain. Then, slowly, you lower your weapons. Your attention drags to the side, where your precious quadrantmate is still putting distance between the two of you. A small, desolate noise erupts from the back of your throat. This cannot be happening. With your gaze off of him, the suit of armor shifts suddenly.   
  
Leg whipping out, you kick his weapon further away and then bring your foot down onto his chestplate. Lowering an ax, you wave the blade just above his olfactory nub. "Go ahead," you gesture for him to continue. "Make my night."  
  
You hear your moirail huff with disbelief and suddenly you know you are defeated. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> olly is so whipped
> 
>  
> 
> i love it


	6. The Devourer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus chapter yo

This cannot be your life.  
  
The little twerp who ripped The Purifier _into literal pieces_ is staring after his girlfriend with lost eyes. How someone so small can withstand the rough ride that is a full blown bloodrage and then become conscious enough to debate ethics a few minutes later is beyond you. Either his moirail is really, really good or his natural state is as capricious as any purpleblood. Even after you had made a move to grab your weapon again, his attention had quickly shifted back to her. Ugh, you can taste the bile in the back of your foodchute.   
  
He appears to come to some sort of decision. With one last glance in your direction and a warning growl that still sounds a bit squeaky (just how old was this kid?), he steps off you and returns his axes to their holsters. Sucking in a deep breath, he takes a stride towards his girlfriend, arms upraised. Then he starts _singing_. Your thinkpan freezes.  
  
"Yooou are my mooooonshine," huskily croons the pupa.   
  
This _cannot_ be happening.   
  
"My ooonnnly mooooonshine," he continues.   
  
Suffering Signless, he really is doing this right now.  
  
"You make me haaaappy when skies are greyyy," he follows the midblood as she turns away, still rolling her eyes. "You'll nevvvver know deeear, how much I looove you."  
  
Oh, fuck your life.  
  
"Pleeease don't take my moonshine aaawaaay," finally, he catches her up in his arms. He begins trying to pepper her face and arms with light kisses.   
  
"Olly," she snorts with laughter, half-heartedly attempting to push him away.   
  
"Oh my Gog, just kill me now," you beg. "At this point, it really would be a mercy."  
  
Although he growls, the girl just paps his nose once and stares at you, "Now now, no reason to be jealous. I am sure that someday you too will find your very own moirail. You know what they say, you're never too old for love."  
  
"Oh my _Gog_ ," you repeat blandly.   
  
"If he wants it, I could oblige him," snarls the highblood kid. He gets bapped upside the back of the head for his trouble.  
  
"You honestly will eventually understand why I ask these things of you," she promises. Then, to you, "Right then. You look like you're not in danger of bleeding out. We'll just leave you here, then. I'm sure your compatriots will locate you within the hour."  
  
"Wait!" you struggle to sit upright. Hellfire, that pupa did a number on you. Of course, the fight had only really turned south when he had gotten between the two of you and turned your weapons against each other. Still, the last maul blow to your chest had sounded suspiciously like you had cracked some ribs. (You think the sound is what triggered the kid into demolishing your partner, actually.)  
  
They watch you with suspicious eyes, the boy stepping in front of his girlfriend, "Watch it, bastard."  
  
"Peace," you grimace. "I've no mind to take you both on, but I also have a bit of a problem. Even if I drag my sorry carcass back like this, having lost to a couple of _pupas_... they will cull me. It's not worth the blow to my superiors' egos, nor the downtime required to heal, for them to keep me alive."  
  
"And?" snorts the highblood.  
  
"...Are you asking for asylum?" the midblood very carefully asks.   
  
You blink. No way. No _fucking_ way. What are the odds, out of everyone who could spare your life, that you found followers. You drag your arms into the appropriate position, each hand clasping the other wrist clumsily. Then you announce with due diligence, "I am."  
  
The indigoblood begins to _vibrate_ , "Oh. Oh fucking _Hell_ no. Sylara, I don't care what he does or says- he's a fucking Imperial Guard! An Empress Elect! The elite vanguard of drones! He is NOT getting asylum. Not from me. Not from _us_."  
  
"Swear your fealty," she demands, ignoring her boyfriend's outrage.   
  
"I have already broken my oath to the Empress herself by asking for asylum," you quirk a humorless smile. "But I will swear this: should you give me safe passage and harbor, I shall never again pick up my blade in the name of the Empire. I swear this on the names of the Sufferer, the Disciple, and my thrice-blighted title."  
  
"Olly," she says intently.   
  
"Fffffffuuuuck," he groans. He scrubs his face with both hands. "Okay. Okay. Fine. It's not like I can't kill him dead later when he unsurprisingly tries to murder us in our sleep."  
  
"For that to happen, you would actually have to sleep," jests the girl.   
  
"Doombringers don't need sleep," he ominously declares as he pulls his hands down and stares at you, hard. "Just the lamentations of the living, tears of the wounded, and souls of the damned. Welcome aboard, drone. You make a single move I don't like, and I will allow my friends to rip out your entrails and feast upon them. But, yeah, other than that- welcome to the family."  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"This is insane," you murmur, still in disbelief.   
  
"Shut up!" hisses the pupa you now know is called Olly.   
  
"Trust in the plan," the one who goes by Sylara says. "You're the adult here. Act like it."  
  
Thus chastised, you continue to march with the two of them docilely walking before you. If anyone approached, the plan was to claim that you were taking in suspects for the recent missing supplies. The fact that the pair of pupas knew _exactly_ what used to be in the supply crates was not lost on you. Apparently followers of the Signless are not always as harmless as you had assumed. Then again, perhaps that is just their resident pet indigoblood causing all the mayhem. You would not put it past the little bastard. (His prominent limp would make you feel proud if your weapon was not a bladed one and you are pretty sure you only slashed his arms and chest a bit.)  
  
As it turns out, you are near the edge of the town when you are hailed by two fellow guards. It takes you a moment to place them. Their horns help, but more so than that is their weaponry. The halberd is the favored weapon of a midblood drone, fairly rare in itself, but even more interesting due to her being a surface jadeblood. The taller female has a scythe like yours but built slightly longer to make up for her slightly shorter reach. You do not remember her name.  
  
"Now where could The Devourer be going with a couple of small fry like this?" the second troll grins. "Never took you as one who had any _interest_ in pupas."   
  
"You have not even disarmed them," tuts the jadeblood with disapproval. "I know you do not see them as dangerous, Devourer, but you should know better than most just how easy it is to get too carried away with your rank and power."  
  
You push back the distaste for their assumptions, "It is perfectly safe, Righteye. I appreciate your concern, but, as your partner stated, they are only pupas."  
  
"Speaking of partners, where is your better half?" Righteye turns her head slightly as if looking for The Purifier.   
  
"Maybe he didn't plan on sharing," the other one smirks.  
  
"I _definitely_ do not plan on sharing," you state with care, allowing them to draw their own conclusions. You are a violetblood, after all. Might as well use the stereotypes to your advantage. And although they cajole and tease you, they eventually do leave 'so that you can have your fun.' Through it all, the kids stay perfectly silent.  
  
As soon as they are out of hearing distance, Olly exclaims, "Suffering fucking Signless above, I am going to shank the next motherfucking adult who so much as leers in our general direction. Syl? You okay?"  
  
"I'm fine," she says, voice wan. "Shall we continue on?"  
  
You know better than to press for any answers, "Right. Continue on at this pace. We'll duck behind that dune to the right for a few and see if anyone was curious enough to follow."  
  
Exhaling hard through the nose, the indigoblood places a hand on one of his ax handles as he trudges forward. You might have heard him muttering that he would be glad to deal with anyone who was stupid enough to follow. In the distance, you hear some sort of beast roar. Then another. Several more join in as the boy absently thumbs at a horn. His moirail reaches out a hand and slowly paps his shoulder for a few moments. Wait a second. The roaring trails off slowly and the town grows quiet again. Okay, no that is not alright.  
  
"There were quite a lot of beasts in town after the initial attack," you begin.  
  
"Mmhmm," he does not even glance in your direction.  
  
"Most of them were wild and not even lusii," you continue.  
  
"Yep."  
  
"They also specifically targeted drones and Imperial Guards."  
  
"Of course they did. I asked them to."  
  
Your thinkpan (and your feet) freeze, "What."  
  
"What?" he echoes back at you, finally turning to quirk an eyebrow.  
  
"Are you- But- You can't-"  
  
"You know, this would be funnier if it didn't happen routinely. Now I'm just getting insulted."  
  
You try to gather your thoughts, "All highbloods are carefully tested for any psychic aptitudes in the cavern trials and marked as potential drone candidates. There is no way that we would not know about you if you lived in this area."  
  
"First off, I don't live in the area, I'm a nomad," he huffs. "Secondly, that would be true only if I had gone through the cavern trials."  
  
You frown, "What do you mean, _if_ you had gone through them?"  
  
He shrugs and continues walking, "I don't wear a bulls-eye on my back for no reason, drone. Hatching out in the day means no cavern trials. No aptitude tests. No lusus. Just me, the hoofbeastshit that is my life, two ghosts, and a shit-ton of beast friends."  
  
Taking a steadying breath, you continue on your painful march, "You weren't kidding when you said you were a Doombringer. Well. That is rather unexpected. Usually your lot stay secluded until they explode messily, taking out as many trolls as possible with them. Nevermind the fact you're a psychic highblood. What are you doing with the followers of the Signless?"  
  
"Dunno. What are _you_ doing with the followers of the Signless?"  
  
"Looking for asylum," you state. "A place where I can exercise something called free will without being culled for it. Also apparently being led out into the desert with promises of first aid and safe passage."  
  
"Then not so different than us, perhaps," smirks Sylara. For that her moirail shoots her a dirty look, but she ignores it.   
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"Home sweet home," the boy drops his weapons by the entrance of the cave. As he stumbles deeper into the cool area, his other belongings soon join the axes on the floor. Off comes his cape, belts, bracers, and his tunic is halfway off before his moirail can stop him.  
  
"Olly, please," she tuts. "We have a guest. Could you at least pretend to be semi-civilized?"  
  
He appears to think about this for a moment. "Nope," he shrugs, finally getting out of his tunic and slinging it to the ground as well. As the lowblood rubs the bridge of her nose, he makes his way to a barrel and fishes out some rudimentary healing supplies. Which is code for he finds some thread and a needle, which he promptly starts using to sew up his own wounds. You do not know if you are impressed by his nonchalance or concerned about his lack of modesty. You are literally seeing things no one outside of his red quadrants should see.  
  
"Look, I know you have your whole wild-child, half-feral, raised by beasts and ghosts thing going for you, and to be honest that's probably why I fell for you so hard, but _please_ try to remember that just because you don't like the fact he is here and you are trying to ignore him does not indeed make the drone go away," says Sylara. "Stop being a weird exhibitionist and either go further in or let me take care of it."  
  
He pauses and gives her a scrutinizing look, "...And how does you patching me up make this less weird?"  
  
Her face begins to flush a slight... green? (Weird, you would have pegged her as a yellowblood from her size and mannerisms. Then again, greens usually make the most rational moirails for highbloods.) She stutters, "Th-that's not how I meant it and you know it!"  
  
"No, no," he giant, shit-eating grin is back as he turns to her fully. "Please do explain. I'm new to all these cultural nuances of you civilized folk. Is it common to let some perv adult watch diamonds taking care of each other? What about other quadrants? Would it be more weird or less weird to hatesnog in front of another troll versus what you are proposing? Should we be charging for this?"  
  
If she splutters any more, his moirail is going to lose any grasp on spoken language. This is physically painful to watch.   
  
You clear your throat, "Yeah, so, I'm going to just turn around and hum to myself really, really loudly. Just... throw me some of those supplies when you two are done being a voyeuristic asshole's wetdream come true." You then do exactly as you describe.   
  
By the time the girl hands you some (thankfully new and clean) supplies, the one called Olly is back in a new tunic, bandages disappearing beneath it. The items on the floor have also been gathered up. Oh, and there is a surprisingly large increase in the number of wild fucking animals in the cave. Namely more than the previously presumed zero.  
  
"Just a few friends," the indigoblood assures you, smile glinting in the low light. "Don't worry, they won't kill you... probably."  
  
"Olly," warns Sylara.   
  
"What? I can't exactly promise anything. Not with Dia and Tav around. Also not when I would actually somewhat like to kill him and they pick up on that kinda shit," he shrugs as if this is no big deal. "Anyway. They don't _usually_ attack anyone I let in."  
  
You take a deep breath, "Okay. Alright. So your control is... somewhat limited. Understood. I will attempt to make my presence as least threatening as possible."  
  
"Nah, that might just encourage them. Just... be yourself? Except less spiky. You don't need that armor anymore, right?"  
  
"I already do not like where this is going," you gravely inform him.  
  
His grin only widens, "Sweet."  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"There is a literal ghost," you say, staring at the apparition hovering just on the other side of Sylara.  
  
"I _did_ mention the ghosts, didn't I?" the highblood pupa sounds annoyed. "I swear I did. Why does no one ever believe the shit I say? Is my life really that fuckin' strange?"  
  
"Yes," you and his moirail both answer at the same time.   
  
"I am still waiting on an appropriate reason for there to be an adult seadweller in your hive, Oxenfree," the spirit drones.  
  
"I told you to stop callin' me that," snarls Olly.   
  
"Now, now," the second ghost (with an absolutely ridiculous set of horns) floats between the two of them. "Please do not try to start anything, guys. Perhaps we should hear what their reasons are, Aradia? I'm sure that Sylara will be more amenable to providing details."  
  
"He asked for asylum," the midblood answers with a shrug. "I saw fit to grant it. As followers, surely you understand what that means."  
  
"Theoretically," frowns the girl ghost.   
  
"We've, uh, never actually granted asylum to an adult before," the other nervously fidgets. "Like ever. It's always been pupas or teenagers who need to dodge the cull. Most of the adults in that category..."  
  
"Are criminals or traitors that we have no interest in dealing with past their short-term usefulness and cannot be trusted," concludes Aradia.  
  
"Well, he can't stay _here_ forever," points out the highblood kid ever so helpfully. "I don't think I've slept more than fifteen minutes in over a week now. What do you suggest, oh great and mighty Dia who knows all?"  
  
"Kill him," she immediately responds.  
  
"Besides that option," huffs Sylara.  
  
The ram-horned spirit appears to consider this for a moment, "There is always the communes... if you make sure he is unable to find his way back to civilization should he escape, it should be relatively safe."  
  
"We can't put him with a bunch of pupas!" Olly looks outraged. Going over his sentence a second time, you note that he has every right to be upset. If the choices are for you to stay here where you are obviously not wanted or go to a hidden enclave full of nothing but children... you honestly might be better off culled. The stress you are causing even these two pre-teens who managed to fight off three Imperial Guards is nothing compared to what havoc your presence would cause to normal pupas.  
  
"I agree," you tell the room at large. "It would likely cause unnecessary trauma to the wrigglers involved. Besides the fact that I am indeed an adult and that usually does not bode well for pupas, I am also a seadweller. The implications of this combination should not be lost on even you, Oxenfree."  
  
His slack jaw closes into a frown, "...I hate it when people call me that. Almost as much as I hate it when everyone else starts talking sense. That's how I know I'm about to get scammed."  
  
"The commune full of psychic children," carefully points out the boy ghost, "should be more than equipped to handle your, um, guest, should anything happen. Plus, we could keep an eye on him for awhile."  
  
"A life you save is a life you are responsible for," the other sagely notes.  
  
"FFFFFFFF-" Olly throws his hands into the air and swears up a storm.   
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
The next time you see your pair of "saviors," they have grown a little taller. Olly is sporting some new scars and a more fluid walk, as if he is only faintly affected by the presence of reality. At times he swings from aware and just odd to downright unhinged from sanity. From all the rumors and stories you have heard, you are not much surprised. Apparently he has had a very long history of madness tinged with brief periods of either lucidity or bloodrages. Being raised by wild beasts and ghosts could do that to a troll, you supposed.   
  
Sylara has, believe it or not, _purple_ eyes. Noting your shock, she apologizes profusely and explains that she has crafted several sets of lenses to conceal her actual blood type. Something about being an assassin and needing ambiguity. Who would have guessed that such a calm, reasonable lass was actually in the profession of political murdering? At least her mere presence appeared to tether her moirail's thinkpan to something resembling normal. Mostly, anyway.  
  
"-big job," she is saying. "It probably will not amount to much now, but in the long run it was a good move. I only wish that Aradia had set me on this path sooner. The more supporters we take out now, the better for the next coming of the Sufferer."  
  
Her boyfriend twitches, "As long as we get to smash someone in dead, it's good enough for me. Too many spook jobs lately."  
  
The midblood reaches for his shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, "I think before that is some vacation time. You especially. After all that work, you have earned being able to kick back and relax for a week."  
  
"I'd rather not," he deadpans.   
  
"Olly only has two modes," laughs a psychic girl, "full-on bullrush rage or lovable lunatic. You'd think a Doombringer would learn to try and enjoy the little things."  
  
The change in the atmosphere is palpable. This is the first time you have heard anyone besides the blueblood himself acknowledge his sign. Very quietly and calmly, he excuses himself from the room. As he leaves, the tension cracks and falls flat. Although the object of the discussion is gone, he left the conversation as glittering shards of glass for others to cut themselves upon. You instead seek him out. He is sitting in one of the garden areas, gazing at the greenery with an expression of longing.  
  
He says nothing as you sit down beside him. Even taking into account the way he leans back, the size difference between the two of you is still immense. Still, he never was one to threaten easily or be cowed by others' physical presence. Thus, the silence is somewhat comfortable instead of painfully awkward. He tries for the badass loner cliche way too hard, but eventually he breaks down.  
  
"Do you know what they say about me?" he quirks a strange smile, one that you recognize intimately.  
  
"That you are a Doombringer, bent on destruction and death until the Handmaiden comes to collect you and your sins?" you lift an eyebrow. "Or perhaps the fact you are reckless to the point of insanity, brave edging towards stupid, and caring to gullible? Maybe you are referring to the rumors that you are more feral than troll at this point?"  
  
"Yeah," he sighs. "Things like that. And more. Ever heard of the one about how I'm quadranted to actual ghosts? Or that I eat troll hearts to gain my strength? In most tales I'm a literal demon. That's actually sort of impressive, in a weird way."  
  
"It is," you agree amicably. Then you sober, "Yeah, I've heard some of those. Do you know what they say about _me_ , though?"  
  
When his brow furrows and he turns to you, you continue, "How about the one where I'm a spy for the Empress come to collect information and leave the commune empty and burning? There's another where I abandoned my post because I murdered and ate an entire town I was supposed to be guarding. Or the one where I'm a pedophile pretending to be a follower of the Signless so I can hang out with all these young psychics that could fry my thinkpan in a few sceonds, that one definitely never gets old."  
  
He snorts, "Really? I heard that you got beaten so bad by some pupa that you flipped black for him and had to leave the Empire because he was some badass rebel. Of course, there's another where the rebel's _moirail_ pitied how much you sucked at fighting and fell red for you. And yet _another_ where it's ash all around. DAMN, do people like quadrant gossip."  
  
"Ha! Oh dear Horrorterrors, that must be where all the pedophile rumors come from," you surmise. "Wow. You are never even here. How do you get all the good gossip?"   
  
"Leowan, mostly," admits the kid. "Still. Some stories have a grain of truth to them. That's what makes them hard to hear, you know?"  
  
"The Doombringer comment upset you, but I am not sure why," you mull it over. "Was it the lunatic bit? I thought you had kind of embraced the particular brand of crazy you had going on in your pan."  
  
"Heh, not that," he draws his legs up and rests his head on his knees. "It was... hmm, I guess you don't know. Imperial Guard probably don't get sent out to exterminate average pests like Doombringers."  
  
"Not usually, no. That would fall more to normal drones, if needed."  
  
"Well, the thing is... life expectancy for Doombringers is... abysmal. Like most of them don't even make it to pail, let alone to the average of a rustblood. We tend to, you know, pop."  
  
"...the learning to enjoy the little things comment," you piece it together. "She was poking fun at the fact you don't have much longer."  
  
"It's silly, right?" he grins down at the dirt floor. "That as a fucking _blueblood_ , I'm upset about dying sooner rather than later. As if the rest of the kids here don't have the same fucking worries due to people on my end of the spectrum. And once upon a time, it didn't matter to me too much. I mean, sure my ancestor lived long enough to briefly terrorize me, but I never expected the same with Dia pushin' the whole holy agenda on me. Now, though..."  
  
"Now you have Sylara," you surmise.   
  
"What kind of moirail would I be if I blow up and leave her all alone?" he turns to you, eyes questioning. "She might get over it eventually, sure, but that kind of failure would cripple her for a long time. If I just... go down that path regardless of her acting as my conciliator, then I am basically saying that she was not good enough. Which isn't true at all! Let's be real: she's the only reason I'm still alive right now.  
  
"And it sucks, knowing that somenight the Handmaiden is going to come to collect and there's not a damned thing I can do about it. Just one night she will come and inspire the Last Rage and I will go down in a blaze of glory. No bargaining, no second chances. Simply take out as many other trolls as possible for the glory of Death himself. Not like my life has been one giant middle finger salute to the universe at large or anything."  
  
"Well, when that time comes let us hope the trolls you kill deserve death," you offer.  
  
He stares at you for a moment, then looks back at the crops and murmurs "...Demon of Justice, they called me."   
  
You scoff, "Yes, because that doesn't sound pompous at all."  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
You have, quite literally, never seen a feral before now. Mindless and cannibalistic trolls that have been pushed too far past the brink of insanity are, frankly, not much of a threat normally.  Occasionally a squadron of drones might be dispatched to clear out an area that is having some trouble, but usually it is not necessary. Ferals mostly end up being killed by each other, wild beasts, or lusii. Then again, most ferals are not highblood psychics.   
  
So when you take in the sorry sight in front of you, your grip tightens on your scythe.   
  
The feral who had once been a troll named Olly paces, eyes wild. Any attempts made to speak or reason with him have been met with a brandishing of weapons, claws, or fangs and a lot of wordless snarling. You have no idea what happened to make the idiot teetering on the edge of sanity take the final plunge, and honestly you are not sure you want to know. You do know, however, that you cannot let him into the hive. There are innocent pupas in there.  
  
"Last chance, Oxenfree," you warn, readying your scythe. "Clear out. I'm not letting you in like this."  
  
A guttural roar, and his bright-red scleras flash. It does not help that the cliff ghasts are starting to become agitated, likely due to his ridiculous psychic connection. If you do not gain control of the situation quickly, the commune is at risk of becoming overrun. Unfortunately, the only clear idea you have at attempting to stop this is by culling the pupa. As much as he annoys you, you really, really did not actually want to kill the kid.  
  
When he lunges, though, a burst of psychic power knocks him head over heels into a dune. Glancing back, you see that two of the older psychic teenagers have joined you. Immint and Leowan, as a matter of fact. Something in you eases and you lower your blade. At least these two could contain the feral and give him a chance of a quick cull instead of a messy battle.   
  
"Nathan, go tell the others we have a Code Blue," the boy psychic is telling some pupa hovering in the doorway. "None of them are to come out here until we figure out what went wrong."  
  
Leowan is slowly approaching the 'Demon of Justice,' "Olly. Apollo. Use your words. What's wrong?"  
  
He throws an axe at her, but it is caught up with psychic powers and set aside, "That's rather rude, Olly. Where is Syl?"  
  
With a aching bellow, you realize what the problem is, "Shit, Leowan, he's too far gone. Sylara isn't around to calm him; we should consider-"  
  
"We don't cull people here, drone," she says, words cold and clipped.  
  
"Shove over Leo, I've done this before," Immint strolls over to them. "Olly. Olly, use your words. Otherwise I'm gonna call up Aradia to come kick your ass into next week. Remember how pissed she was at you last time? You haven't got her permission to pop yet. It's not your time."  
  
The highblood kid growls, but his gaze is now more focused. There is a spark in them of understanding if not reason. You wonder how someone can go feral multiple times. This time when he lunges, the psychic simply swats him back into the sand. He thrashes, rises, and screams pure frustration.   
  
A third lowblood flickers into existence, "A-ah, there you are! You're faster than I thought, Olly."  
  
What little progress had been made is immediately lost as the teenager throws the biggest of fits. You have seen wrigglers that have more manageable tantrums. You realize why when you notice that the cliff ghasts are completely calm and slowly receding back to their lairs.  
  
Aradia herself appears next, "Really, Oxenfree? Really? When we told you to go find help, you made your way to the nearest batch of monsters you cannot even control on a good night?"  
  
He screeches at her what might actually be a word or two.   
  
"Oh. I did not realize you were so far gone," blinks the female ghost. "That does complicate matters."  
  
"What happened, Tav?" asks Immint, getting everyone back on task.  
  
"There was a, uh, couple of psychic drones," winces the male ghost. "We're in the middle of another town cleansing, so it's probably not going well right now. They got into his head."   
  
The female lowblood sucks in a harsh breath, "Blessed Gog, no wonder he's gone full feral. I'll fetch Mephis and see what she can do."  
  
In response to your questioning look, Immint explains, "She's a mindwarper. At the very least, she can try to patch up whatever damage those drones did. If we're lucky, that might get him back to insane but not quite feral."  
  
"I really must be at the town, as now we only have Sylara and some unguided beasts there," frowns Aradia. "Tavros, keep him in check until either he's ready to rejoin the fray or I return. He's not allowed to die yet."  
  
"I know," the bull-horned ghost sighs. "At the very least, I can keep the, uh, cliff ghasts from tearing apart the entire commune."  
  
With a nod, the female ghost disappears. Staring hard at the others, you begin to turn things over in your mind. A full town cleansing meant Imperial Guard, complete with a contingent of psychic drones. Obviously the battle is not going well if the condition of their pet mass-murderer is anything to go by. You scythe is comfortably warm in your grasp.  
  
"When he's ready, I'm going too," you announce.


	7. Olly

You blink and feel... nothing. What was once a raging storm of pain and suffering is gone. Colorful globules dance in your vision and your ears are ringing, but the agony is absent. There is the taste of blood in your mouth and you can only hope it is yours. Then something scratches at the back of your mind and you go into full-blown reactive phase. Which is code for you thrash around like an idiot because mind stuff is _really_ not your forte.   
  
"SHIT! I thought we had it that time!" a voice yells.   
  
You immediately locate the source of the feeling and scream, "GET OUTTA MY HEAD!"   
  
"Oh fuck," a small voice says, completely cowed by your bellowing. The itching feeling stops and you shoulders immediately sag in relief. For a moment, they let you just stand there drunkenly panting. A long moment, perhaps. Not nearly long enough, in your opinion.   
  
"Olly, you back with us?" a familiar voice asks with some trepidation.   
  
"Gimme two," you manage, eyes still adjusting.   
  
"We, probably, don't have that kind of time, Olly," Tavros points out.  
  
Groaning, you reach out with your thoughts for the nearest beast to borrow their senses for a minute or two. Or ten. Instead, you find resistance. Puzzled, you push harder. Still nothing. You are not even receiving emotional feedback from any of the creatures in the area, although you can sense their general presence. There is really only one explanation for that.  
  
"Tav? Fuck. Off," you carefully enunciate.   
  
"Oh, uh, sorry Olly!" splutters the ghost. "You were kinda not fit to ask for favors." Even as he says that, his hold on the beasts loosens. You immediately latch on to whatever is nearest. Huh. Cliff ghast. Not ideal, but fuck it you are out of options.   
  
Then the door slams in your face again, "Maybe you should, uh, choose something that _won't_ murderswarm the entire desert when you get pissed off."  
  
" _Tavvvv_ ," your voice drops into a growl. Finally able to see more than just faint smudges, you glare in his direction.  
  
"Nope, holding firm on this one," he announces. "Find something else to ask."  
  
Taking a deep breath, you try to remember that you are indeed on a time limit and arguing with another bullhorned troll is pointless. You are both too stubborn to make any good headway. Also he is your midleaf for a reason; he really does not take any shit from you. Reaching out further, you find some minds less alien than that of the monsters swooping ahead. Huh. Well, that would have to do.   
  
Opening your eyes again, you nod, "Right. Backup located."  
  
Your mentor touches on the thinkpans of what you found and grins, "Awesome. Let's head back."  
  
"Ahem," a large presence steps forward. You realize suddenly that you have been tunnelvisioning since you came to. Tavros is not the only one standing outside the commune. Immint and Leowan and Mephis are hanging around with varying shades of unease. Also the Devourer has just stepped forward, weapon in hand.   
  
"Yo," you greet him. "What's with the scythe?"  
  
He snorts, "Was thinking about culling you to protect the commune."  
  
"Good," you nod.   
  
"Now I'm thinking about coming with you to clear out some drones," he continues.  
  
You pause for a moment, ignoring the cries of disbelief from the other teenagers. Tavros says nothing, so you suppose the decision is yours. Briefly considering the pros and cons (pro: huge fucking guy on your side for once. con: said guy is an ex-drone... actually that may also be a pro), you shrug, "Can't say we'll be bringin' any more of your kind back with us."  
  
"I'm not asking you to," counters the adult. "Only for you to consider it should the opportunity arise."  
  
You sigh, "Time crunch. Come on. We can argue morals and ethics later."  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
A long curved blade slices through the suit of armor you were about to take your axes to, releasing a spray of cerulean. For a moment you stare at the rapidly-becoming-corpse dumbfounded. He. Has. Got. To be. Shitting. You. This is ridiculous.  
  
Whirling around, you brandish one of your weapons upwards towards his snout, "Stop. Stealing. All. My. Kills!"  
  
He does not look the least bit admonished, "I am only attempting to aid you in battle. It is common for drones to cover each others' weaknesses to form more powerful fighting units." You wait for him to drop the real truth while you level him with the most unimpressed stare, "Also, no matter your record, you are only a pupa. I would be remiss if I did not protect the children's beloved spiritual leader from any unnecessary injuries or bloodshed."  
  
"I swear to Gog I will sic the Rouses on you," you snarl.   
  
"R.O.U.S.es," he corrects, yet again. "And I would much appreciate it if you did not do that."  
  
"Whatever," you scoff. "The giant fucking squeakbeasts with a taste for trolls. Which, by the way, totally are still carrying off entire corpses to their burrows. I think I'm wrecking the ecosystem."  
  
A short bark of laughter escapes him, "I never thought you would continue to surprise me after all this time. 'Wrecking the ecosystem.' Ha!"  
  
"Boys? Please at least attempt to pay attention to what is going on," your moirail says as she daintily lunges onto the back of another drone. From her elevated position she is able to more easily introduce a small blade between its helm and chestplate. Several times. You think she has more kills than you at this point, even including the beasts you managed to scrounge up. That is unacceptable.   
  
"Back for more?" a voice calls out from down the street.  
  
Whirling around, you spot the crimson armor of the Imperial Guard. Immediately, you feel something slam into your thinkpan at full throttle. Instantly the pain is unbearable. It feels like someone dumped lava into your skullvault. From the corner of your eye, you see Sylara clutching her head as well. Thus far she is not screaming, but it is only a matter of time.  
  
You easily turn your agony into fuel for your rage. You bellow your fury at them, and all around you the beasts whip up into frenzy. Still, you know it is not enough. As long as they are able to warp your mind, you are unable to physically defend yourself. It is a struggle to even keep your eyes open at this point, the light somehow increasing the pain. The sensations from your horns are nothing but fire and brimstone, and if you had the energy to spare you would probably rip them clean off.   
  
A blur lunges past you.   
  
By the time the pain stops, you are on your knees and Syl has been screaming. Gasping for air, you struggle to your feet. You see The Devourer standing above a headless corpse. Heh. Looks like you were not the one to lose your head after all.   
  
When he notes you watching, he shrugs, "It seemed like the most efficient solution would be to cut off the psychic interference at its source. Whenever you're ready, we still have quite a few drones left running amok."  
  
"Nice job, Dev," you reluctantly admit.  
  
He looks at you incredulously, "Dev?"   
  
You grin, "All my friends get nicknames. 'Bout time I started callin you by one."  
  
"Please, don't," he deadpans.  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"Someone explain to me how this is a good idea?" your moirail is asking the room at large again.  
  
Snorting, you adjust another bit of spiky armor, "Dia has it all worked out. I go in, I demand to see prisoners- wham, bam, thank you ma'am- I go back out. Easy as pie."  
  
"You don't even cook your meat if I'm not around," she exasperatedly points-out. "Pie is not in your repertoire. Neither is, as you like to call it, 'all this spook business.' Which masquerading around as a drone totally counts as spook stuff."  
  
"Syl," you roll your eyes. "Dev gave me all the details on how to act and what to say. My friends will be waitin' just out of sight if things get dicey. I've got this. I'm not going alone anyway."  
  
"I hardly count ghosts as adequate backup when you are walking into an entire fucking fortress filled with drones," she mutters.  
  
You decide to pull out your big guns, "Didn't you do exactly the same thing like half a sweep ago? It'll be fine. Drones aren't that bright to start with, and I'm not gonna step one toe outta line. And neither will any of them."  
  
"I hate that grin," remarks Immint. "It always means something completely bullshittery is about to happen."  
  
"I'm about to bust out an entire fucking dungeon," you scoop up the helm and place it securely on your head. "That's pretty full of hoofbeast shit. How do I look?"  
  
"Terrifying," the lowblood immediately responds.   
  
"Sweet," you murmur, already busy getting your weaponry situated.  
  
"I can't believe that The Devourer's old armor fits you at all," Sylara is saying. "I mean, we had to make some adjustments and those blocks under your feet can't be comfortable, but you don't look like you are rattling around inside anymore."  
  
"Stop fussin," you pap the top of her head as gently as you can while wearing a giant red gauntlet. "I'll be back before you know it."  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"Captain... I don't believe we've met yet?"  
  
You turn and eye the Imperial Guard, letting your helm trail up and down a brief moment as if sizing him up, "Probably because I don't normally introduce myself to fucking _Lieutenants_. Unless you're lookin for a beating, carry on."  
  
The crimson helm comes off, and the guy has the gall to look bleatbeastish, "I suppose not, Captain. I just wanted to inform you that you're heading for the prison block."  
  
"I am aware, Lieutenant," you scoff. " _As you were_."  
  
"Yes, sir!" he barks the only appropriate reply, scrambling back to his post.   
  
That makes three overzealous idiot guards who have tried to get in your way. It is a good thing you left your friends outside of the camp, because you can already feel your ire mounting. Luckily The Devourer had been completely correct when he said 'just bare your fangs and act like you're a tyrianblood and the lower ranks will scatter.' Even more luckily you have not run in to anyone who outranks your Captain armor. The few remaining guards who note your approach only give you curt nods or salutes.   
  
You stamp down to the lower cellar doors, knowing exactly where they lead. The best thing about ghost informants is that they are always right and no one ever sees them. Pushing the correct stone in a seemingly normal wall, it swings open to reveal another short flight of stairs. Beyond you know you will find the dungeons holding some of the Empire's most wanted criminals. Hilariously, you never thought you would see them from this side of the bars.   
  
"I have business with a prisoner here," you tell the two bored-looking guards leaning by the entrance. "Get lost."   
  
With barely a glance at you, they proceed to get the Hell out of there. Damn you are going to miss people hopping to do what you say just because of something as silly as a set of armor. As you clank down the dingy corridor, you can see the prisoners slinking backwards in their cells. Having an officer loose in the dungeons is not an unheard of occurrence, but it did not bode well for anyone at their mercy. Finally, you find the particular troll you were searching for.  
  
"Bro, how do you even get yourself into these messes?" you ask the lowblood as you pull off your helm.  
  
"Olly Oxenfree? Holy shit! What the fuck are you doing? Is that seriously Imperial Guard armor?" Broley peers at you through the bars.   
  
"Sweet, huh? Anyway, I got somethin for you and every other lucky whore down here," you jingle a ring full of keys.   
  
"Olly, you glorious bastard!" his face breaks out into a grin. "What're you waiting for? Let's get the fuck outta here!"  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
The part of the plan that perhaps could have been thought out better is the ending where you have about thirty criminals of varying degrees of tortured and maimed following you out the front doors of the dungeon. To be fair, you are pretty sure this is when you also stopped paying attention to what Dia and Dev were saying when you went over the plan for the eighth time. They stumble out of the building on your heels, blinking blearily in the moonlight. Poor sods.   
  
"SIR?!?" the shrill voice of one of the guards who had stopped you cuts through the air. " _What_ do you think you're doing?"  
  
You turn, totally nonchalant, "I'm Pied Pipering this shit."   
  
There is the slap of skin hitting skin as behind you Broley executes a perfect facepalm.   
  
"What? Sir, I don't understand what you are-" In the not-so-far distance, a wolf howls, cutting him off. With a wicked grin hidden away by a crimson helm, you cup your hands in front of the elongated visor. You howl back, cadence easy on your tongue after sweeps of practice.  
  
For a brief moment, the silence of the camp is deafening as all eyes turn wonderingly to you.   
  
An answering howl rings back, much closer than the first. On the edges of your awareness, you sense the eagerness of the howlbeast pack as they approach the place you just claimed had prey. Then pandemonium ensues. Drones begin readying their weapons and charging, the lowbloods among the criminals lash out with their own psychic powers immediately. You drop into a stance, axes swept up into your grasp, and bullrush into the nearest knot of enemies.   
  
The brawl is a little more stilted than usual, since you have never worn actual plate armor in battle. It surprisingly catches in places, making your movements more jerky than the constant forward motion you are used to doing. The good news is that when blades come at you, they are usually stopped by the metal instead of skewering you. However, very quickly you start shedding pieces of it. The very first to go is the helm, since having about ninety-five percent of your vision blocked is not necessarily ideal for a full-on all-sides battle. Next are the pauldrons that keep you from actually lifting your arms above your head. (Who the fuck designed these suits? Are downward blows not a thing anymore?)  
  
You regret this mere moments later as a warhammer comes whistling towards your head. In an eye-searing flash, the hammerhead is gone. Along with the upper torso of the drone who had been swinging it. Attempting to blink the colorful globules out of your eyes, you glance around for who (or what) just saved your ass. Standing right behind you is an adult prisoner, bronzeblood from his eyes, with one arm (uh, his only arm apparently) raised up. Lightning shimmers between his fingers for a moment.  
  
"You okay, little 'Captain'?" asks the adult as his arm lowers.   
  
"Peachy, soon as my vision clears," you reply.   
  
Then both of you return to the battle. Your howlbeasts you raised up from pups have joined the fray, punching a hole through the outer perimeter and giving you a route of escape. Urging the prisoners forward, they easily take to tactical withdrawal... otherwise known as retreating, fleeing, tucking your tail between your legs, and running away. You and a few of the others (that lowblood adult included), cover them with blade and psychic powers. As soon as you are able, you swing up onto the back of one of your howlbeasts and turn her away from the fight. Now is the time to scram.   
  
Surprisingly, the people on foot keep up rather well, especially considering you are not exactly slowing down your normal pace by much. Just enough to keep an eye on Broley, that idiot friend-enemy of yours with a penchant for trouble. None of you stop until they base is far, far behind you (and also on fire- what the fuck). Panting, they all eye each other warily, not quite sure where to go from here.  
  
"So, any of you who need asylum, you might wanna follow me and talk with my people," you announce at large. "If you wanna take your chances elsewhere, all the power to ya. Broley, sit your ass back down! I didn't just bust out a whole dungeon for you to slink off again. I swear, you're the worst kind of friend."  
  
"Step off my shame globes," he snarls back. "I didn't ask you to come storm the castle."  
  
"Well I did! Admittedly because Dia asked me to, but there! Also you owe her a favor now, dude. It was nice knowing ya."  
  
"...Shit."  
  
"Anyway," you eye the rest of the trolls from your seat upon your howlbeast, "we have room for those who want a quiet life away from the Empire. It's hard work, mind you, but some think it's worth it. Otherwise, vamoose. Scram. Get gone. There'll be trackin parties soon on our trail and you wanna be clear of us."  
  
"I won't go with a Doombringer," one hisses to another. "Let's scatter before anything else befalls us."  
  
Unsurprisingly, the majority of the trolls do indeed scatter. They lope off by themselves or in pairs in all different directions. After a few minutes, Broley and a few others are all that remain. Besides your friend, there are two other lowblood teenagers, one greenblood pupa, two _seadweller_ kids, and two adults. One of them is the one-armed psychic from before, while another is a blinded oliveblood. Disabled adults awaiting a mercy cull, then. You do not envy their lives.   
  
"Hey," you nod to the lightning-thrower. "Thanks for the assist, asshole."  
  
He gives a small satisfied smile, "The name is Quirik. And you're welcome, brat."  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"Welcome to the Dark Carnival my invertebros," you grin as wide as possible.   
  
"Olly...what the _fuck_ are you wearing?" your moirail rubs her forehead upon seeing you.  
  
"I just want it on record that I have no idea what he's been up to for the past three nights," shrugs Broley as he walks by the entrance.   
  
"Well not all of us can have the fun murder-hobo jobs," you growl as you walk further into the hive and rub at the itchy, flaking paint on your face. " _Some_ of us get told by hateful ghosts to go cause some mayhem so that their stabby girlfriend can get their assassination on. By the way, how was your night at work? Mine was great."  
  
"What does causing mayhem have to do with religion?" frowns Sylara, not at all thrown off by your diversions.  
  
Your face stretches into a manic grin again, "I up and _educated_ some motherfucking Mirthful Messiahs."   
  
" _WHAT_ DID YOU JUST DO?!?" a familiar voice yells.  
  
"You asked for a distraction, Dia," your voice is undoubtedly smug. "I gave you a distraction."  
  
"But I _didn't_ ask you to, oh, let's say, impersonate a member of the clergy and advise a bunch of unstable highbloods to 'overthrow the corrupt and blasphemous drones of the city,'" she points out.  
  
"Fair," you nod. Then you shrug and head for the pantry to grab a ladle of water to drink.   
  
"He did _WHAT_?"   
  
"Watch your volume, darling," you chide. "No screaming indoors." You totally probably deserve the hand thwacking the back of your skull.   
  
"That is not funny," snarls Sylara. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Mirthful Messiahs are almost completely made up of Subjuggulator bastards. If you were supposed to cause a distraction for my mission, why didn't you just interrupt the council meeting or something?"  
  
"But this," you point to your face, "seemed like more fun. Besides, now I've been a drone _and_ a clergy. I'm crossin things off my death list."  
  
Aradia is cradling her head by now and your moirail looks exhausted. She heaves a defeated sigh, "It never crossed your mind to even do something simple, like using your beasts to cause a ruckus, did it?"   
  
"Nope~," you cheerfully inform her.   
  
Sylara rolls her eyes, "And _that_ is the difference between us, Olly. You always have to do things the _hard_ way!"  
  
"Maybe," you shrug. "Bro, get you ass outta my chair. Find your own spot." The lowblood huffs but complies nonetheless. You settle in to your place with a small sigh. At last, a break.   
  
"I have a job that you should be most interested in, Sylara," the blighted ghost says, ruining your relaxation.  
  
"I'm listening," your moirail responds.  
  
"It involves a certain amount of sailing," begins Aradia. "I know Apollo will not set foot on one, but how do you feel about boats?"  
  
*        *        *        *        *        *  
  
"I need you to do a thing for me, Oxenfree," begins the ghost girl.   
  
"Go fuck yourself, Dia," you grumble under your breath, not in the mood. After you lovely jaunt of _motherfucking **dragon** -riding_, you are in a slump. The rocs are hungry. Your moirail is still gone. The wolves have begun to wander from your temporary hive. Syl said she would be back in a few nights. The creatures nearby are so loud in your head with their every want and need and fear and concern. You need your diamond; it has been far too long.   
  
"Olly, this is serious," she says. And, shit man, she just used your preferred nickname. That means something big is going down. You turn and give her your full attention. "There's a job coming your way, and you _have_ to take it. If you don't, everything we are working for will be for naught."  
  
Frowning, you roll the idea around in your thinkpan for a moment, "I'm always up for work. Why wouldn't I take this job?"  
  
"It will be adults doing the asking, probably," admits the spirit. "However, the job is going to come from someone with blood redder than even mine." She clasps her wrists and all the sudden you understand.  
  
"Oh, you gotta be fuckin with me. Sufferer's get? In _my_ lifetime? Fuck, Dia, not even I am that unlucky. Or crazy. Ask someone else."  
  
"You will do it, or you will never see your moirail again," threatens Aradia.  
  
You go still.  
  
"Did you just _threaten_ my 'rail?" your voice goes low and deep.  
  
"I tell you only the truth. She is gone and not coming back, Olly. Not without help, anyway," she clarifies. "The drones have her. If you want us to bust her out, you have to take this job."  
  
"Tav," you close your eyes. " _Tav_."  
  
"I'm sorry, Olly," his voice replies, "but Aradia is right. I can't do this job, seeing as how I'm dead and all. You can, though."  
  
"No," you snap, blindly raging. "No, no, no, nonononononono!" Something smashes under your fist. "NO! This ain't fair! I've done plenty! I've done everythin you've asked a me, you bastards! No more!" Then you go cold, "Fuck you. I'll go get her myself."  
  
"You'll die," Aradia states, as if it were really that simple.  
  
"Good," you snort. "And I'm not even comin back as a ghost, you twat."  
  
"You really want to leave her all alone?" she continues as if you had said nothing. Your bloodpusher freezes. "She will think it is all her fault, you know. Do you really want to leave that guilt on her? What a thoughtless moirail you are. How heartless."  
  
Your breathing is too fast, too erratic. Your vision swims. "Fuck you! No! Urrrgh!" You are torn. You need to rescue her. Yet, you cannot do that in your current state. You are slipping, sliding, falling down down down the hopbeast hole of your mind and you know it. It has happened often enough that you recognize when you are starting to go feral.   
  
"He's going non-verbal again," Tavros admonishes. "You're pushing too hard. Olly, hey. Come on, listen to your midleaf. We'll rescue Syl, I promise. All you need to do is keep holding it together, okay? Don't go feral. Think of Sylara. Keep busy with little jobs here and there until she gets back."  
  
Your body trembles as you jerkily nod. "...'Kay." You can do that. You are good at pretending you cannot see the madness closing in on you. What is a few more nights?  
  
"You'll like Suffererkin," promises the bullhorned spirit. "You've already, um, met him once. He's friends with the dragon."  
  
Something sparks in your mind, "Nice dragon lady."  
  
"Yeah, her," he soothes. "So you take his job, and Aradia will free Sylara, and everything will, probably, be fine."  
  
"Everything will go according to plan," assures the Handmaiden's descendant herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends Ogbas, a prequel to Alternative Alternia. Although it is an extremely self-indulgent ficlet that got out of hand, I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> ((to those who are wonderin.... no im not dead. just tired. and overworked. and recovering from nanowrimo and the resulting tendonitis. i am working on the last couple chapters of alt2 and tryin to recover my notes for shipwwrecked. there are also a couple of other projects in the wings that might take off once i finish alt2. we shall see how things go))


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